


Copy-Room Romance

by GoodGuyJean



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Bisexual Jean, Domestic Fluff, Gay Armin, Graduate Student AU, M/M, Mostly Fluff, Mostly Jearmin, Philosopher Jean, Scientist Armin, Slice of Life, The 104th are all between 23-30, armin has anxiety, fast fall in terms of feelings but actually slow burn, fluff and cheese and some mild drama, hotadorable (?) explicit sexual content, nerds finding each other, non-binary Hange
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-09-22 05:25:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 55,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9585392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoodGuyJean/pseuds/GoodGuyJean
Summary: Armin Arlert’s life as a graduate student in the Earth and Atmospheric Sciences department at Reiss University is starting to wear him down. Between his studies, his duties as a teaching assistant, and his lab work he doesn't manage to get out much. A chance encounter on an otherwise bad morning may provide a much needed distraction for the fledgling marine geologist, if he's willing to risk opening up to someone new: namely, a persistent philosophy PhD named Jean Kirstein.Rating changed!





	1. Peer Review Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armin shows up for work late one morning and has an unexpected and slightly infuriating encounter with stranger in the Earth and Atmospheric Sciences copy room.

Twenty-three year-old Armin Arlert's life is routine, albeit a relatively complex and taxing one. On weekdays, he gets up at seven in the morning, takes a shower, checks his emails while scarfing down his breakfast, and then rushes out the door to catch a bus to campus. He’s usually there by about nine; on Tuesday/Thursday this gives him about an hour to finish prepping for the lecture section of the class he’s TAing—Earth and Atmospheric Sciences 230: Introduction to the Earth System—and on Monday/Wednesday it gives him about two hours to complete any reading or course work for his Environmental Physics seminar with Dr. Hange. Armin then goes back and forth between classes and the science library before catching a ride back to his house for dinner. On Wednesdays, he comes back to campus in the evening for his own lab work and on Thursday nights he has to oversee an undergraduate lab. He always tries to get a decent amount of sleep, but sometimes he’s up until an ungodly hour in the lab or working on something from home and it shows in the dark smudges underneath his eyes. It’s a small comfort that the rest of his cohort—the current second year Earth Sciences graduate students at Reiss University—look similarly worn down.

One dreary Thursday in early November, Armin’s day gets off to a particularly rough start. Worn out from Wednesday’s grueling lab work, he sleeps through his alarm, causing him to miss his bus to campus despite rushing out the door as soon as he can. He gets the next one, but he's lost a significant amount of prep time and when he finally arrives at the Pixis Biological and Environmental Center at 9:45 AM he’s definitely in a _mood_. To top it all off, his shoes are thoroughly soaked from tripping into a puddle by the bus stop and the humidity is causing his shoulder-length blond hair to stick irritatingly to his neck. Squelching up the stairs, Armin quickly stops by the Earth Sciences TA office to print out a study guide the students will be starting in class and then races off to the copy room. He knows he's usually the only one here this early on Thursdays, so he can probably make the copies and dash off to class without too much fuss. However, there's currently only one working copier (Hange spilled coffee on the other one and the department is having trouble securing a replacement), so he's screwed if, by some chance, someone's already making copies.

His anxiety morphs into panic when he _does_ find a complete stranger in the copy room, cursing and fiddling with that one singular (previously) working copier. A pale lanky man in a green sweater and dark wash jeans is crouching by the bottom paper tray while the machine beeps morosely. “God-fucking-dammit!” the stranger hisses as he tugs at something inside the device. The copier’s mechanical internal organs are spread out haphazardly on the floor around him.

“What’s going on?” There’s a faint squeak in Armin’s voice that he’ll probably be embarrassed about when he thinks over this scene later. Right now he’s too caught up in the technical disaster playing out before him to care.

The man starts and whips around to face Armin. He reaches out a hand to steady himself but accidentally puts it on top of a particularly spiky piece of the copier’s interior lying on the ground. “ _Fuck!_ ” he yelps, shaking his fingers in pain and grimacing. Now that he’s turned around Armin can see his face but he’s so distracted by the copier he only takes in a general impression of a mousy brown undercut and a long face that’s gone a little pink with embarrassment and guilt. Armin still doesn’t recognize him; he supposes that he could be a fourth or a fifth year he hasn’t really interacted with yet. He can’t think of a reason for anyone else to be using the Earth and Atmospheric Sciences’ copy room.

“What’s happening?” Armin asks again, his mouth starting to feel dry as the reality of the situation sinks in. _I have less than ten minutes to make fifty copies of a twelve page document and the copier’s busted . . ._

The stranger throws up his hands exasperation. “Hell if I know! It says there’s a paper jam, but the damn thing won’t open up.”

“Move,” Armin orders with more authority than he feels. The man obligingly sidles aside to make room for Armin to look into the machine. “Hold this,” Armin shoves his course packet at the man before reaching inside to gingerly lift out a cartridge. He carefully sets that on the floor and peers back inside the copier. He can see a sheaf of pink paper clogging up the works.

“Aha!” The man is leaning over Armin’s shoulder so that their bodies almost touch and his breath tickles Armin’s ear. Fortunately, he's not wearing any kind of strong scent, but even the faint smell of his soap puts Armin on alert that there's a stranger in his personal space. The other man doesn’t seem to notice the proximity but Armin feels it like an itch and wishes he would back away. “There it is,” the stranger crows triumphantly, like he found the problem himself.

 _What do you have to be smug about? You're the one who broke it!_ “Yes.” Armin grunts as he reaches his hand inside to tug on the sheet. “And I can already tell you what the problem was.”

“What’s that?”

Armin pulls the sheet out and then leans back on his heels to show it to the man, who has, thankfully, stood up to give Armin some space. Above him the copier continues to beep, reminding them to replace the cartridge. “The colored paper is heavier than the white paper, even if it’s the same size. You have to tell the copier that you’re using colored paper for the job so it can compens—,” he breaks off when he gets a good look at the contents of the sheet he’s holding.

_PHIL 103: Crafting Philosophical Arguments_

_Peer Review: Essay 3_

_11/10_

_Reviewer’s Name and ID:_

_Reviewee’s Name and ID:_

_1\. Summarize your partner’s argument in 2-3 three sentences._

The rest of the worksheet is cut off in a smear of ink but Armin’s seen enough. He glares up at the man. “You’re from the _philosophy_ department?” His voice rings with accusation.

“Busted,” the man winces at Armin’s harsh tone and puts up his hands in surrender, still holding Hange's study packet. “But you don’t have to say it like it’s a dirty word.”

Armin stands up but his shoes have tracked in some water and he slips a bit. The stranger reaches out a hand to steady Armin, but Armin quickly pulls away. The man stares down at him, a little bemused. At any other moment Armin might have been slightly intimidated by their height difference—the man’s got a good twelve centimeters on him—but now he’s too annoyed and stressed out to care. “I'll say it however I want to!” Armin snaps, snatching the packet away from his copy-room adversary. The man’s mouth twitches and Armin feels his cheeks glowing. _Very clever, Armin. You got him there._

“We need to work on your people skills,” the man drawls, still clearly fighting off a grin.

“ _We_ don’t need to do anything,” Armin hisses through clenched teeth. “Why are _you_ in _our_ copy room breaking _our_ stuff?”

At least the stranger has the grace to look chastised. He rubs his hand behind his head and doesn’t quite meet Armin’s stern eye. “Look, I dunno how it happened but my class got assigned way out here this semester and I’ve been running behind all morning, and it just completely slipped my mind that I had to print off peer review sheets. There was no one in here so I thought—just this once!—,” he punctuates his rambling speech by holding up a finger. “This one, singular time I could sneak in here and print off a few copies. I just need seventeen.” His words become pleading and he finally meets Armin’s gaze. Armin notes that his eyes, while a bit on the beady side, are a warm hazel.

Armin opens his mouth to object when he feels his pocket buzz. He tugs out his phone to see that it’s already 10:05 and he has a text message from Hange: _where r u? gotta strt on time 2day, 2 much 2 cvr_. Armin’s heart jumps to his throat. “Shit.”

The stranger curiously peers down at his screen. “What’s up?”

 _sry copier problem, omw,_ Armin types quickly and then shoves the phone back into his pocket. “I’m late for class, that’s what,” he mutters. “And I don’t have any copies of this fucking study guide.”

“Oh.”

Armin gestures expansively at the mess on the floor. “I have to go. You better put all of this back!” And with that parting shot he storms out.

* * *

Armin seethes through Hange’s two-hour class, barely paying attention as they walk the students through the problem sets projected onto the auditorium’s big screen. Hange cheerfully informs the class that due to “technical difficulties” they'll have to use their own paper for today’s lesson but that the study guide would be posted on Moodle later in the afternoon. Once class is over Armin apologizes profusely for the slip up but Hange instantly waves him aside with a chipper, “Mistakes happen.”

 _Yeah. Mistakes like Mr. Smug-Hipster-Undercut-Philosophy-Student_ , Armin grumps to himself as he heads back up the stairs to hold his office hours. Just as he reaches the second floor his stomach growls. Maybe there won’t be any students waiting for him and he can wolf down some lunch. Food might help him shake off this funk.

As it turns out there are no students waiting for him: a small blessing. The door is open but the room’s only occupant is Marco Bott, a fellow second year graduate student and the cohort’s resident meteorologist. He looks up from typing furiously on his laptop to smile congenially at Armin as he stumbles into the room. “Hey there, Arlert,” he chirps.

“Hey there, Bott.” Armin manages to grin back at Marco before sidling over to his own desk. It’s hard not to perk up around the endearingly freckled Marco, who always has a kind word and sympathetic ear for whomever he encounters. Between his warm brown eyes, his preference for flannel shirts, and the slight Mid-Western lilt to his accent, he's easily the most approachable TA in the department. All of his students love him and are constantly dropping into the office to ask his advice on all kinds of topics, even ones unrelated to their work.

“You look a little tired. Did something happen this morning?”

There’s an edge to Marco’s voice that Armin can’t quite put his finger on. Something’s up, but his head is starting to feel fuzzy with hunger so he turns his attention to digging through his backpack for his sandwich.  He’ll figure it out after he’s eaten. “Not really, just a rough morni—aw crap.” His hand flails around inside his bag but comes up empty. “I think I left my food at home again.”

Marco leans back in his chair and watches Armin with something suspiciously close to a knowing smirk. It’s a far cry from his usual earnest look. “I think I might have a solution.”

Armin raises one eyebrow in question. Marco’s grin widens as he reaches behind his laptop and pulls out a brown paper bag and white disposable cup that Armin recognizes from the coffee kiosk in the lobby. “Somebody dropped this off you about an hour ago.”

Confused, Armin gets up to take the mysterious gifts from Marco. The coffee cup is cold but the bag smells like fresh pastry. Armin’s stomach rumbles in anticipation. “Who was it?”

“You mean you don’t know?”

Armin shakes his head, thoroughly stumped, and peeks into the bag. There’s a croissant and a folded piece of pink paper. Pink paper . . . Armin’s tired brain whirs into action.

“I’ll give you a hint.” Marco leans forward conspiratorially. “It was a guy. Pretty tall, decently built, good hair. That jog your memory?”

There is something familiar about that description, yes. Armin pulls out the pink piece of paper and finds a note written in an untidy scrawl. It’s half cursive in places and he has to squint to make out some of the individual words.

_Hey Blondie,_

_I’m sorry about busting your copier and making you late for your class, honest. I did manage to put everything back properly (I think . . .) and it should be working again. It printed out my sheets, anyway. I’ve learned my lessons about colored paper and upsetting scientists. Please accept this apology snack!_

_Your local dirty philosopher,_

_Jean_

Armin only has a brief moment to be indignant about the nickname before everything suddenly clicks into place. Jean is the stranger from the copy room, the person who had derailed Armin’s morning, and now his lunchtime benefactor.

But Marco thinks this is an entirely different kind of present.

Heat floods Armin’s face. “O-oh, no, it’s not . . . this guy, uh, Gene. Or John?" He's never been very good at French pronunciation but he gives it the old college try anyway. "He’s not in our department, but he tried to use the copy room this morning and then he broke the copier and I, uh, I  . . .,” Armin thinks back his encounter with Jean and winces. “I was having a rough morning and I kinda took it out on him.” He hefts the bag sheepishly. “And now he’s apologizing for breaking the copier and upsetting me.”  _Not flirting with me. Definitely not._

“Ah,” Marco pats Armin comfortingly on the arm. “Don’t worry, stuff like that happens! He really shouldn’t be messing with our copier. And even if you were harsh on him it looks like he’s not holding grudge, since he brought you apology food.”

Armin sighs, his stomach still churning with embarrassment as his brain reminds him of everything he said and did this morning. It doesn't help that Jean's closing is a self-deprecating callback to his own somewhat childish words. “Yeah.”

“Water under the bridge, yeah?”

Armin manages a small smile. “Yeah.”

Marco gives him a final pat on the elbow and turns back to his computer. “Enjoy your free lunch!”

Armin grabs his favorite ceramic mug (a large white one emblazoned with “Please Listen to Science!”) from the office collection, dumps the room temperature coffee into it, and sticks it into their microwave. There’s a slightly metallic aftertaste but the cream and sugar packets he finds in the bag take care of that. The caffeine starts to kick in and the delicious pastry settles his stomach, but Armin still feels a bit like sulking. As he munches away and prepares for the possibility of students showing up to discuss the study guide, his thoughts keep turning back to that morning and his behavior.

_If I’d been in that situation, in a building far from my department, I probably would’ve done the same thing. He was just trying to teach his class._

He spares a glance back at the note and sputters out a sip of his coffee.

_But he called me “blondie!”_

Armin tries to set aside his worries as the first of his students begin showing up for extra help.

* * *

When he wakes up the next morning Armin decides he has to make an apology of his own. He googles the Reiss University Department of Philosophy and locates one Jean Kirstein in their student directory. The TA office is on the third floor of Trost Hall on the arts quad. A quick scan of the campus map confirms Jean’s assertion that his usual base of operations is very far from the Pixis Building. Armin can’t fathom why there would be a humanities class all the way over on east campus: it must be some administrative oversight. He can’t help but feel a little sorry for this Jean character, even if he breaks copiers and comes up with slightly offensive nicknames.

So after his debriefing meeting with Hange’s other TAs he stops by the kiosk to buy a donut ( _he_ knows better than to buy someone coffee when there’s the possibility they won’t be around to drink it immediately) and then boards the bus that will take him to the opposite end of campus. While he’s en route he scribbles a quick note that the donut is gluten free and for Jean, from Armin, as an apology for snapping at him the other day and as a thank you for the snack. He manages to resist the temptation to address the note to “Mr. Pretentious-Undercut.”

He’s only been to the arts quad a couple of times and he gets a bit lost among all of the late-Victorian brick buildings, but finally he locates Trost Hall, a handsome gothic revival structure that must be as old as the campus itself. He’s already inside and padding up the wide carpeted stairs by the time he realizes just how creepy his actions might appear.

He pauses on the second floor landing and chews his lip in hesitation. He doesn’t know why, but he doesn’t want to leave this conflict unsettled, with Jean potentially thinking he’s oversensitive and high strung. It embarrasses Armin to think that Jean will only have the impression of him getting upset over a paper jam to judge him by. Armin wants to show that he can be an adult who admits when he’s in the wrong, especially if a smug guy like Jean can do just that (even if parts of the note were tongue-in-cheek). Besides, he has no idea what Jean’s schedule is, so the other student _probably_ won’t be in the TA office and he’ll be able to just leave the donut with the note without causing too much of a stir. In fact, this will be better than confronting Jean directly: they can both go back to their lives and forget the copy-room debacle ever occurred. Fortified by this thought, Armin climbs up to the third floor.

The philosophy department TA office is in Trost 301B. It doesn’t take long for Armin to locate it in the hallway. The heavy wooden door is half-open and he approaches carefully, not wanting to interrupt if someone is speaking to a student inside. He can hear people arguing within.

“ . . . I think you’re misunderstanding what Dr. Smith is trying to argue,” an unfamiliar masculine voice cajoles.

“No way, I know Smith’s work better than anyone,” Jean responds hotly. Armin stifles a groan: he’s in the office. “He’s definitely pushing his evidence further than it can support. Hell, just look at this passage on page eighty-three.” There’s a rustling of pages. Armin debates wandering off and coming back later once Jean’s gone, but realizes that he doesn’t want to come to west campus again and, since it’s Friday, there’s always the risk that Jean will leave for the weekend, meaning that the donut will be stale before he finds it on Monday and . . .

Taking a deep breath to calm the butterflies in his stomach, Armin peeks his head around the door.

The Philosophy TA office looks to be quite a bit cozier than the Earth Sciences one, with standing lamps instead of the glaringly bright florescent overhead lights of the Pixis building. There’s an assortment of desks, a row of wooden bookshelves bolted to one wall, and a threadbare couch tucked into one corner. Jean is sitting in a rolling chair with his back to the door, gesturing enthusiastically at a slim book to a young man with a dark bowl cut. A blond young woman sits at one of the desks with her back to Jean and his colleague, typing away with her headphones in. Having taken in the situation Armin attempts to duck away and plan his next move, but Bowl Cut spots him.

“Can we help you?” He cuts Jean off mid-rant, looking over his colleague's shoulder at Armin. There’s no backing out now so Armin takes a cautious step into the room. Jean turns around to look at him.

“Oh hey, it’s you!” he doesn’t sound upset or annoyed; just surprised and perhaps even a little . . . hopeful? He smiles tentatively up at Armin, who finds it oddly endearing.

Armin stifles to the urge to shuffle nervously. Now that he’s seeing Jean for a second time, some aspects of Marco’s description are beginning to make more sense. Armin remembered him being tall with an undercut, but now Armin understands what Marco meant about Jean being “decently built.” He’s not a body builder, but he does have broad shoulders that taper into a lean torso. He’s wearing a tight-fitting brown pullover today that really outlines his shape. His face isn’t exactly handsome in a traditional sense—it _is_ long and his thin eyebrows look predisposed to scowl—but Armin likes its angles. And then there are those hazel eyes . . .

“What’s up?” Jean prompts, and Armin blushes at being caught staring.

“Oh, I was just wondering if you had a sec to talk?” Armin’s voice sounds a bit breathy to his ears. _Crap. Crappity crap crap. That’s embarrassing. Let’s just give him the donut and escape!_

“Sure.” Jean stands up and hands the book to Bowl Cut. “Give that another look over while I’m out.” Before Bowl Cut can protest, Jean’s walking out into the hallway with Armin. He pulls the door shut behind them and gives Armin a sheepish look.

“Hey man, I really am sorry about the copier—,” Armin shakes his head to stop him from apologizing again and holds up the brown paper bag.

“I actually came here to say sorry myself,” he admits when Jean quirks his eyebrows in mild confusion. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you or maligned the noble study of philosophy. I actually quite like reading philosophy. I was just having a bit of a bad morning, but that’s not really an excuse for being rude.” He pushes the bag into Jean's hands. “I really appreciated the food yesterday, so I thought I would return to the favor.”

Jean chuckles and shakes his head. “You don’t have anything to apologize for, really. Sometimes philosophy needs to be maligned. Besides, it’s hard for a man to walk in on someone else fooling around with his copier, I get that.”

“Just be more careful next time.”

Jean looks up at that. “Next time? I can use your copier again?”

Armin pulls a face. “We would prefer it if you _didn’t_ but I understand that emergencies happen.”

The other man just laughs again. “You’re a very trusting man.” He peers into the bag. “Chocolate donut, nice.”

“It’s gluten free, just in case.” Jean’s face falls a little but he schools it back into a pleasant expression quickly. _No_ gluten problems, then. “And I didn’t get you coffee because I wasn’t sure if you’d be in the office and I didn’t want it to get cold.” Armin realizes what he’s accidentally implied and he hastily attempts to explain. “I-I mean, not that I didn’t enjoy the coffee. I heated it up, it was still good! It was very thoughtful . . .”

“Ah man, I didn’t think anything through did I?” Jean offers a self-deprecating smile. It’s surprisingly sweet for an otherwise grumpy looking face. Armin looks down at the floor.

“Er, well, it’s not a big deal because I don’t have celiac disease and I did heat up the coffee . . . um . . .”

They lapse into an awkward silence. Just as Armin’s trying to find a way to politely extract himself, Jean speaks. “Well . . . I could make it up to you by taking you out for hot coffee sometime.”

Armin’s head snaps up to stare at Jean. “Oh, you don’t need to do that.”

Jean’s smiling again, his cheeks just the faintest pink. He shrugs. “Yeah, but I’d like to.”

_Well then._

“O-ok.” The affirmative slips out of Armin's mouth before he really thinks through exactly what he's doing . . . which is agreeing to something that sounds suspiciously like a coffee date with the man who broke his copier, apparently. Armin's never been asked out by a guy who didn't already know he was gay, but he's pretty sure that's what's happening because "take you out" definitely sounds like a "date" phrase. He can't help but be a little impressed that Jean would be willing to take such a risk; the warmth in his cheeks spread back to his ears.

Jean's smile turns into a wicked grin. “Great! I’ll get you warm coffee and _you_ can make it up to _me_ by getting me something _really_ gluten-y.”

Armin splutters. “H-hey, I was trying to be careful! And gluten-free can be pretty tasty.”

Jean pulls a face. “If you say so.” Armin reaches to take the donut back but Jean pulls away, clutching it to his chest. “Hey, I didn’t say I wouldn’t eat it! Now give me your phone.” Still twisting away so that he protect the donut from Armin, he holds out a hand expectantly. Armin just stares stupidly at him.

“Why?”

“So I can give you my number and we can make plans.” He wiggles his fingers. Chagrined, Armin hands him his phone. Jean inputs his contact info and then texts himself so he can have Armin’s number too. When he gives the phone back Armin sees that he’s entered his name as “Jean 'Dirty Philosopher' Kirstein.”

He makes a noise that's somewhere between a snort and an embarrassed groan, then blushes at the indecency of it. He looks up to see Jean typing on his own phone and smirking. He narrows his eyes as a sneaking suspicion occurs to him. “You better not be entering me as ‘Blondie.’”

The smirk grows into an evil grin. “Well, you better give me your real name then.”

Suddenly Armin’s a little embarrassed. “A-Armin Arlert.”

Jean’s lips twitch but he doesn’t laugh. “Alert?”

“ _Ar_ -lert,” Armin enunciates.

“Nice alliteration.” Jean finishes typing and tucks his phone away. “Well, good to properly meet you, Armin. As you can see, I'm Jean," he says, pronouncing his name as "Gene." Armin makes note of that and is a little relieved he didn't make of a fool of himself by trying it out on his own. "And I should get back in case any students actually bother to show up, but I’ll text you about that coffee.” 

Armin gives a little wave. “Ok, see you around.”

“Yeah. Thanks for the donut!”

Armin watches Jean walk back to the room, his brows knitted in mild concern. _Now what have I gotten myself into?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [3/4/17: I've edited this chapter a teensy bit (nothing significant has changed) to clarify a few things/bring it more in line with the rest of the story so far/clean up those goshdarned typos. I also felt like I should establish how to pronounce Jean's name in this AU; I read the manga before I watched the anime and because I'm an American with a few southern roots I assumed "Gene." I think that variation also makes sense for someone from MA, so I'm going with it, even if it isn't strictly canonical xD]
> 
> Hey all! I've decided to try my hand at an AU, even though I'm more inclined to canonverse I think. I actually found it quite difficult to move Jean and Armin out of their original context (both location and age) while still keeping elements of their original characters. I'd really appreciate any notes on characterization, world building, dialogue (is it believable? I interact with a lot of graduate students but I'm worried everyone starts sounding the same after a while), and prose style (I feel like I could be more concise). 
> 
> In the interest of full disclosure, there is another fic where Armin and Jean are planning to go to graduate school and Jean is interested in philosophy. It's really good, here's a link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/8997838/chapters/20547391. I've been bouncing this idea around for a while now and all other aspects of the stories are different, so I hesitate to put it in the "inspiration" slot, but I thought I would link it :) 
> 
> I chose Armin and Jean's subjects based on their in-world interests. Armin's fixation with the ocean and other natural phenomenon led me to believe that he would be marine geologist or an oceanographer and Jean's role as the moral center of the series lends itself pretty nicely to philosophy (plus all those conversations in trees . . .). I had to do "research" (i.e. looking through my own institution's course catalog lol) and I'll admit that neither marine geology or philosophy are my particular subjects of study, so please correct me if I get something wrong! I will go back and edit it! A lot of this is pulled from my own experiences, but I will have to do some research to get Armin and Jean right so please bear with me xD
> 
> I currently have five chapters planned out, but I haven't come up with an ending yet (oops . . .). The plan is pretty detailed but it does take me a while to write a chapter. 
> 
> You really do have to select a setting for colored paper on some copiers to prevent them from jamming. I'm not saying that this has happened to me, but this has happened to me xD.


	2. Assigned Reading

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armin talks to Eren and Mikasa about his life as a grad student. Jean and Armin meet for coffee at an eclectic place. Talking to Jean is easier than Armin initially expects.

After a smattering of texts back and forth Jean and Armin decide to meet for coffee the following Monday at 3:30 PM. Jean suggests a place called _Zeke’s_ , which Armin has heard of but never himself visited. Ymir—the edgiest member of Armin’s cohort—often invites people there for study parties, but Armin’s never been able to make it to one and he doesn’t generally spend a lot of time in downtown Rosewall anyway. His studio apartment is on the outskirts of the university town, where the rent is cheaper and the parties are less noisy. Sometimes he gets a little lonely out there but overall it’s a good environment for studying and there’s a semi-regular bus to campus, so he feels he can’t complain.

* * *

On Saturday afternoon, Armin makes himself his third cup of coffee for the day and curls up on his couch to call his childhood friends Eren and Mikasa Yeager for a weekly catch-up. It only takes two rings for Eren to answer.

“Yo, yo, yo, Armin! What’s shakin’?”

Armin rolls his eyes fondly at Eren’s exuberant greeting. _Some things never change._

“Not much. What’s up with you?”

“Ugh, what isn’t up with me?” He can picture Eren’s face perfectly from his disgusted tone of voice: his nose is scrunched up and his dark eyebrows are drawn into an exaggerated scowl. Grinning to himself, Armin sips his coffee and settles himself in for a long rant. “The chief is riding my ass again. Says I left something out of my last report so now he’s making me write it _all_ over again, what a douche. He’s so nit-picky. Like, it’s such a small detail you wouldn’t even notice it unless you were _trying_ to find something to get pissy about. And then week-after-next we gotta travel downstate to visit mom and dad, that’ll be a pain. The freeways are always a mess at Thanksgiving.”

Armin chokes on his drink. After a coughing fit and several “are-you-okays?” from Eren on the other end of the line, Armin croaks out, “Yeah, I just forgot that Thanksgiving was so close.”  _It's sneaking up on me again. Hopefully somebody will still be in town and offer to host some kind of get together. . ._

“How do you forget Thanksgiving, our most wonderful national holiday?” Eren sounds skeptical.

“I’m not sure everyone sees it that way,” Armin reminds him. In fact, setting aside its dubious colonialist origins, Thanksgiving falls too close to the end of Reiss' semester to be a real break and it's hard not to feel disenchanted when airline companies opportunistically raise their prices to prey on the sense of familial obligation that comes with the holiday. He refrains from telling any of this to Eren, however, and instead continues, “And I forget because the weeks just kind of blur together here. Sometimes I can’t even remember what day it is.”

“Man, what are they doing to you out there?”

Armin pauses to genuinely consider his answer. “They’re using me as cheap labor so they can earn grant money and spend more time on their own work instead of teaching their undergrads. They’re also attempting to cram lots of information about how the earth works into my brain so that I’m not an embarrassment to them when I go out into the field after this is all over.”

“Jesus,” Eren sighs. “Grad school has made you bitter.”

“I actually have generally positive feelings about the whole experience,” Armin chirps. Eren’s sigh is louder and longer this time. Armin’s certain he’s shaking his head in disbelief.

“Dude, you need a break. Are you sure you can’t come out for Thanksgiving? Mom, Dad, and Mikasa would be so happy to see you. Wouldn’t we, Mikasa?” His voice gets louder as he calls out to his childhood friend and wife. Armin hears Mikasa give an affirmative answer before there’s a rustling as Eren transfers the phone to her. “Hey, Armin.”

Armin smiles again. Where Eren Yeager is loud and energetic, his wife is grounded and stoic: they’re an odd but ultimately complementary couple. Hearing her soft voice on the other end of the line soothes him but also triggers an ache for home that he’s always fighting against, especially this time of year. When he talks to Eren and Mikasa he’s put in mind of the bright blue skies and briny ocean breezes of Shiganshina, California: the polar opposite of cold, gray, blustery Rosewall, New York. What he wouldn't give for a lazy day with his best friends on Venice beach: eating fish tacos, playing in the surf, people-watching . . .

“You know we would love to have you, Armin,” Mikasa is saying, bringing Armin out of his nostalgic reverie.

Now it’s Armin’s turn to sigh. Faced with the reality that he'll be missing his second Yeager family Thanksgiving in a row (and that he will continue to have to do so in the future), he really wants to kick himself for moving out east, no matter how great an opportunity it is to work with a premiere sedimentologist like Dr. Hange. “I really wish I could, Mikasa. The price for a cross-country flight out of here for Thanksgiving is ridiculous, though. And I have to be back at work immediately after the break. But I’m definitely coming home for Christmas.”

“We understand. We just miss you.”

Suddenly Armin’s throat feels tight. “Y-yeah. I miss you all too. So much.”

The conversation moves on to other topics. Mikasa puts the call on speakerphone and the three best friends have a much needed hour-long talk. Eren unleashes a tirade about his boss—the world-weary sheriff of Maria county—and Mikasa explains some of the non-confidential details of a court case she’s just wrapping up as part of her internship. Armin listens with rapt attention, basking in warm glow he feels whenever he speaks to his friends. _Soon you’ll be able to see them again. Just a few more weeks until Christmas break in the land of eternal sunshine . . ._

_Yeah, a few more hellish, butt-busting weeks._

“So how about you, Armin? I know you’re working your ass off, but have you got any fun plans for the weekend? Video games to play? Parties with friends? We all know how you love to go on benders,” Eren teases.

“No I--,” Armin begins, but then he remembers a certain smirking philosophy student. “Well, not for the weekend, no.”

There’s silence on the other end for a brief moment before Eren blurts, “That’s . . . cryptic.”

Armin’s brain scrambles. _How to explain?_ “Well, I don’t have anything specific planned for the weekend, but I do have a meeting on Monday.”

“A meeting?” Mikasa asks. “With Dr. Hange?”

“Um no.” _Why is it so hard to explain?_ “With a guy. It’s, ah, a long story.”

 _Is it even a story?_ Armin’s not so sure now. Thinking back over the events of Thursday and Friday the whole mess with the copier and the exchange of apology-pastries seems kind of silly.

“What kind of guy?” Eren sounds a little perplexed. Mikasa lets out a small sigh. Armin came out as gay to Eren and Mikasa years ago and both of have only ever been supportive of Armin’s sexuality, but Eren can still be a little clueless whenever anything vaguely related to Armin’s love life comes up. To be fair, Eren's not the best at picking up on heteroromantic cues either. Armin’s still a little surprised that his friend managed to get married a few years ago, all things considered. Armin decides to take Eren’s question at face value.

“I don’t . . . I’m not exactly sure. It’s kind of a strange situation.” Armin quickly launches into an account of how he met Jean and why they’re having coffee on Monday. He tries not to leave out any details, but he’s painfully aware of how trite the anecdote must seem to his friends: he got angry at a man for breaking their copier, said man apologized to him by buying him food, Armin apologized by buying the man food, and then there were still some things to even out before they reached apology equilibrium so the man asked him out to coffee in a way that was vaguely flirty. It’s not exactly riveting high romance.  

“And that’s really all there is to it,” he finishes, somewhat sheepishly.

“So, it’s a date,” Mikasa’s voice is matter of fact.

“I-I guess. But not a very serious one. Like, a very, very casual one.”

“Now, hang on a sec,” Eren interjects. “Why is that a date? It sounds like he wants _you_ to apologize to _him_ for getting the wrong kind of donut. What a dickwad!”

Even though Mikasa doesn’t say anything and he can’t see her, Armin _feels_ her roll her eyes at her husband.

Sure enough, Eren’s next sentence is, “What’s _that_ face for? What did I say?”

“Well, whatever it is, keep us posted.” Mikasa says pointedly while Eren continues to huff indignantly on Armin’s behalf.

“If there’s anything to keep you posted about, I will.”

* * *

When Monday rolls around Armin starts to get a little bit jittery about meeting with a relative stranger at a place he’s never been before. He’s not _afraid_ —their rendezvous spot is a popular coffee joint in the middle of the afternoon, after all—but he just _knows_ that he’s going to be awkward and that makes him all kinds of nervous. He hasn’t been on many dates since starting at Reiss last year, even casual ones, so he feels out of practice. _It’s just a little meeting_ , Armin tries to reason with himself. _Just a little meeting with a relatively good-looking guy . . . but also a guy from a department on the opposite side of campus who you will never have to see again if you don’t want to! If you’re horribly awkward or he really does turn out to be an asshole then you can cut your losses. Easy-peasy._

_Easy-peasy. . ._

Armin finds it difficult to concentrate on his work that day. He keeps losing his place in his notes during Dr. Brzenska’s lecture on geophysics and he misses a question Hange shoots his way at discussion section, causing Ymir to snicker and Marco to look at him with concern. He gets a hold of himself after that but it’s still pretty embarrassing. He _really_ shouldn’t be letting something as small as a meeting for coffee get to him this much.

He finishes up an appointment with a student at three and then packs up to head downtown. Before he exits the Pixis building he ducks into the bathroom. As he finishes up washing his hands he takes a calculating look at himself in the mirror above the sink. He decided not to do anything different with his appearance today, since it’s just coffee, so he’s wearing straight-leg jeans, a brightly-colored checked shirt, and a sky blue pullover sweater Eren’s mother Carla bought him last Christmas. It doesn’t look _bad_ —to give Carla credit the soft blue does match the color of his large eyes—but it is kind of . . . square? Armin’s always dressed a little older than his years though, to make up for his otherwise boyish appearance. He’s smaller and thinner than most other twenty-three year-old men, with rounded cheeks and a button nose. His thick eyebrows age him up a little bit, but he has a high brow so really they make him look perplexed and earnest more than anything. On this campus he’s always getting mistaken for a freshman, which has its perks: no one blinks twice if he uses those club recruitment fliers for free coffee. But maybe that’s not the look he wants for a date with another adult.

In fit of inspiration, Armin fishes a hair tie out of his backpack and ties his shoulder-length soft blond hair back into low half-bun. Man buns are kind of cool right now, aren’t they? But more importantly pulling his hair away from his face makes it look slightly more angular and therefore just a bit older. Satisfied, he offers his reflection a tentative smile.

_You can do this._

He tugs on his coat and exits the bathroom. Outside the Pixis building he hops onto a bus that will take him all the way downtown. According to Google Maps, _Zeke’s_ is pretty close to the Front Street bus stop. Sure enough, the colorful neon sign flashes at him from across the street as he gets off the bus. _A neon sign for a coffee shop?_ He chuckles to himself and tries to ignore how clammy his hands are getting in his jacket pockets. While he’s waiting for the crosswalk light to change he checks his phone and groans: he’s five minutes early.

This. _This_ is why he hates going out with people, on dates or otherwise. He’s compulsively punctual and it makes things awkward, at least to his mind. He supposes there’s no help for it: he’ll just have to go inside and wait for Jean.

In addition to the garish neon sign, _Zeke’s_ has windows so plastered with fliers for local concerts and open mic nights that it’s difficult to see inside, which is dimly lit anyway. The door is an almost obnoxious color of red. If Armin didn’t know better he would have guessed that the establishment was a bar instead of a coffee place. When he reaches for the door handle he notices a laminated sign hanging from the door.

_Zeke’s Coffee House Hours_

_Monday-Friday: 6:30 AM-9:00 PM_

_Saturday: 8:00 AM-10:00PM_

_Sunday: 8:00 AM-6:00 PM_

_Zeke’s Tattoo Emporium Hours_

_BY APPOINTMENT!!! NO WALK-INS!!!!!!!_

_Call (555) 555-555_

_Or Visit zekestattoos.com to schedule an appointment._

_What?!_

Armin’s never heard of a coffee-shop-cum-tattoo-parlor before. It’s such an intriguing combination that he temporarily forgets his nerves and eagerly steps inside.

 _Zeke’s_ is surprisingly roomy for a place on Front Street. The coffeehouse portion of the establishment is the front half of the shop. The lighting is low, but the vibe is cozy rather than creepy. There’s an eclectic collection of heavy wooden tables and wrought-iron chairs scattered around the shop floor and a couple of customers are camped out in the leather armchairs tucked away in a corner. The exposed brick walls are covered with a combination of event posters like the ones in the windows and some local artist’s wares. Most of the paintings currently hanging around the shop look to be some kind of impressionist acrylic take on redwood forests, which clashes with the otherwise slightly industrial feel of _Zeke’s_. The coffee counter is to the right of the entrance and the tattoo parlor is in the back of building, separated from the rest of the store by a glass door covered in tattoo designs. Something between punk and alternative warbles over the speakers hanging from each corner, but otherwise the place is pretty quiet. There are a few patrons hanging out inside, but they all seem to be working on laptops or reading books, completely lost in their individual worlds. Armin stands gaping at everything from the entrance of the shop before the heady scent of warm coffee reaches his nose and he remembers why he’s here.

 _What a place!_ He thinks as he makes his way over to the counter. _I can definitely picture Ymir here._ His colleague Ymir Reiss (so named because she’s married to Historia Reiss, a distant descendent of the university’s founder) is a bit punky, a bit snarky, and has a penchant for hipster establishments, even if she likes to mock them. She also recently acquired a new tattoo (one which she refuses to show to her cohort, however; it’s in a private place that Ymir doesn’t really want to discuss, apparently) and Armin now wonders if she’d come to _Zeke’s_ to get it done.

The man behind the counter is extremely tall and broad, but standing hunched so as to make himself appear smaller, as if he’s embarrassed to take up so much space. He has brown skin, straight black hair that flops into his dark blue eyes, and eyebrows that are drawn upward so that he looks slightly morose and concerned. Something in his expression reminds Armin of himself so he smiles nervously at the shopkeeper and glances at the silver name tag pinned to his chest. _Bertl. Seems to fit the place._

“Hello,” Bertl sighs. “Welcome to _Zeke’s_. What can I get you?”

Armin glances up at the chalkboard menu behind Bertl. “Oh, er.” He starts perusing the drink options and then remembers. _Jean’s supposed to buy me coffee and I’m supposed to buy him something too._ “A-actually, I’m going to be meeting a friend soon so, uh, I’ll just w-wait for him,” he stammers, feeling the blush coming back to his face. Bertl just shrugs.

“Whenever you’re ready then.”

Armin shuffles over to a small table by the widow, removes his coat, and settles down to wait. He plops his phone on table to give his hands something to do. Normally he feels awkward sitting by himself in public places, but everybody here seems so busy with their own work that he’s actually not too bothered about it. He is, however, worried about Jean. When will he show up? What will they talk about? What if they run out of things to say? What if he’s misunderstood something about why they’re meeting? Jean never actually specified that this was supposed to be a date, after all, and Armin's never gone out with someone who wasn't already explicitly aware of his sexuality. But the way Jean had asked to meet up . . . he really thought . . . well, only one way to find out.

Armin glances at the clock on his phone: 3:31. He opens the Facebook app and starts idly flipping through recent posts without looking closely at any of them, his body on alert for when the front door opens and closes. Eventually he gets temporarily distracted by an article about an upcoming mecha anime he’s interested in, so he’s startled when the door finally does open and someone steps inside, bringing a blast of cold November air with them.

It’s not Jean. It’s a short curvy woman with dyed red hair and a faux fur trimmed parka. He glances back at his phone and sighs. It’s 3:46. Is he getting stood up? He feels his heart sinking in disappointment coupled with a strange sense of relief. _Maybe this is for the best._

_Maybe you should text him._

Armin’s fingers hover over his message chain with Jean from last Friday. Jean hasn’t sent him any new texts warning Armin that he’ll be late. Armin supposes that he really should just text to check in, but he can’t help but hesitate. If this is going to fall through he doesn’t want to look needy or wounded. He knows this anxious feeling is illogical but it sticks in his brain, even as he starts typing a quick message.

Just as he’s erasing it and starting over for a third time an extremely harassed looking Jean stomps into the shop. He’s bundled up in a black winter jacket, beanie hat, and scarf, but there’s no mistaking that long face and the stubborn jut of his broad chin. His narrowed eyes sweep the room and settle on Armin—who gives a tiny nervous wave—and his stormy expression melts into relief.

“Oh thank God!” He strides over and starts peeling off his winter layers (though the hat stays on), dumping them unceremoniously in the chair across from Armin. “I was worried you were gonna leave. I would’ve texted but my phone fucking _died_ on me right before my meeting with Smith.” He points at Armin’s phone which is still on the table. “You were just texting me weren’t you? Christ, Armin. I’m sorry. I should’ve known Smith would hold me over, he _always_ does that.”

Armin’s a bit caught off guard by the amount of energy that Jean’s brought into the otherwise languid _Zeke’s_. A few people are starting to look their way. Armin feels the blush rising in his cheeks, partially because Jean is being noisy and partially because he’s finally here and Armin suddenly remembers how attractive he finds the other man. Sure, his thin eyebrows are still drawn together in a faint scowl and his hazel eyes have certain fierceness to them, but the grumpiness suits him somehow. He looks even more like a hipster today than the last time Armin saw him, sporting an open black waistcoat over a white button-up in addition to his beanie hat. The waistcoat defines his frame in a way that Armin finds intriguing but also a little intimidating. He tries to shake off a sudden self-consciousness.

“Oh, no it’s fine. I figured something must be up.” He smiles timidly up at Jean, tucking his phone away into the pocket of his jeans. “Besides, it’s nice here.”

Jean barks out a laugh, but when he speaks some of the edge has left his voice and he’s a little quieter. “Yeah, it’s got a good atmosphere. Hey, lemme make it up to you by getting this round. Least I can do for stressing you out.”

 _He knows I was stressed out?_ This _round?_ Armin shakes his head. “That wasn’t the deal.”

Jean waves him off airily. Armin observes that he has long fingers. “I’m backing out of the deal. C’mon bro, just lemme assuage my guilty conscience. We can do the manly pride thing some other time.” Armin has to fight a grin at the odd mix of colloquialisms and more academic speech that Jean uses. It seems like a natural linguistic blur rather than an affectation and he actually finds it a bit charming. He schools his face into a more neutral expression and nods up at Jean.

“Fine. Get me a mocha with a shot of expresso and we’re good.”

“As his majesty wishes.” Jean fishes his wallet out of his coat pocket. “Your hair looks nice today, by the way.” He says it so casually that Armin doesn’t really have time to register the compliment before Jean’s making his way over to Bertl’s counter. As Jean turns away, however, Armin thinks he notices a faint blush coloring Jean’s cheeks that hadn’t been there before.

Armin watches him walk away for a second, then realizes what’s he’s doing and averts his gaze. Jean’s sudden appearance has caused a weird tingling sensation to well up under the surface of Armin’s skin. It’s not the same kind of nervous energy he had before, but it isn’t entirely pleasant either. His body remembers this feeling but can’t quite place it: it’s been too long.

He’s jolted from his musings by Jean placing a brimming ceramic mug in front of him. The rich smell of coffee draws a contented sigh from him. Jean moves his bag and coat to settle into the chair across from Armin with his own cup. “That kind of day, huh?” he asks taking out a brown paper bag he had stashed under his arm. He pulls out a large chocolate chip cookie and breaks it in half, offering one piece to Armin. Armin notices Jean’s long fingers again. He gulps and takes the proffered treat with a mumbled “thanks.”

“No, not really actually. I just really like coffee.”

His companion chuckles. “Only blasphemers don’t.” Jean dips his half of the cookie absentmindedly in his cup, which Armin notes is just black coffee. For some reason he’s not surprised.

“But it sounds like you were having bit of a day?” Armin prompts before the conversation can lull.

Jean snorts. “Nothing that unusual. Just Smith being Smith. Professor Erwin Smith, my committee chair,” he clarifies. There’s a potent pause and then he takes a long swig of his coffee— _he must have a stomach of iron_ —before looking Armin very seriously in the eyes. “So, we don’t know each other very well yet and I’m aware that this probably isn’t going to give you the best impression of my otherwise sparkling personality, but I desperately need to rant to somebody about today and you were gullible enough to actually ask me about it. But I’m giving you fair warning, in case you want to back out.”

Armin’s a bit taken aback by how forthright Jean is turning out to be. “That’s very conscientious of you.”

“I try.”

Something about Jean’s frankness emboldens Armin. “How about the Cliff Notes rant?”

Jean laughs outright at that. “Fair enough. So, Smith’s my adviser because he works in my field, but we’re starting to take opposing approaches to some of the major issues.”

“What’s your field?” Armin interjects with sincere interest. It’s been a while since his undergraduate survey in philosophy, but he remembers enjoying it.

“Philosophical and cultural posthumanism. Critical questions about what it means to be human in the age of intelligent machines, decentralizing the human as the nexus of all morality, and all that jazz. Smith’s work is becoming borderline transhumanist, I think, so we’re always butting heads.”

Armin nods slowly. “You’ll have to back up and walk me through some of the particulars of that argument some other time, but I think I get the gist of it.”

“You’ll regret saying that eventually, because I’ll hold you to it. Anyway, in addition to our conflicts of interest, he’s kind of an odd guy: a genius, in his own way, but a bit of a flake because he has to go chasing after every new idea until he gets to the bottom of it. He always plays by his own rules. For instance, we were supposed to have a meeting today at one to talk about a seminar paper I’m writing, but he emailed me at like ten this morning to move it to two. And then he showed up twenty minutes late because he lost track of time in the library!” Jean rubs a hand over his head and sighs. “Plus his meetings _always_ go longer than he says they will, so I spent the second of half of it worrying about getting here on time and I was not really paying as much attention as I should've. Smith just forgets that his students like to pretend we have lives outside of the academy sometimes. Like, I get that being an over-committed academic with a work-husband does it for him, but some of us have other plans—,” he cuts off abruptly and clears his throat. The faint pink tinge is back on his face. “Anyway,” he continues reaching for his coffee cup and not quite meeting Armin’s gaze. “Now you know my secret: I’m an oversensitive philosopher who will never be employed because he picks fights with his adviser. What’s your story? You’re some kind of environmentalist?”

“Earth scientist. I study marine geology,” Armin supplies. He files away the contents of Jean’s rant for later. For all Jean’s grumbling, there’s an undercurrent of fondness and respect for his adviser in his words which belie his self-portrait as a malcontent. “I study the history and composition of the ocean floor.”

“Why the ocean floor, specifically?” Jean sounds genuinely curious.

Armin shrugs. “I’ve always liked the ocean, and water more generally. I grew up in Southern California so I practically lived in the Pacific. I think the oceans are some of the most beautiful and fascinating parts of the earth. Plus there’s still so much we don’t know about them.”

“What’s that saying? That we know more about space than we do about our own oceans?” The face Armin pulls makes Jean laugh. “That's bullshit, huh?”

“Yeah, a little,” Armin sniffs disdainfully. “We have no idea how vast space is, or even if this is the only universe, and there will probably never be a way for us to find out the answer to either of those questions. At least we have a general sense of how much ocean there is on planet earth. But it’s true that we’ve sent more people into space than to the deepest parts of the ocean floor.”

“Once again the truth is somewhere in the middle. Or maybe that’s also a fallacy.”

Jean immediately follows up by asking for Armin’s thoughts on multiverse theory, launching them into a complicated discussion that requires a lot of frantic Wikipedia-checking on their phones. Armin gets so caught up in arguing his point that the idea of multiple universes isn’t really scientific despite what he said earlier about the vastness of space that he forgets to be nervous. Jean listens carefully when he speaks and seems capable of keeping up with the specific scientific explanations Armin walks him through. Armin learns some other things about Jean, like that he talks with his hands when he’s making a point and that leans his head on his hand when he’s listening intently. He archives all this information in the mental file he’s making for Jean. He’ll dissect it all later: for now, it’s just important that Jean understands his point.

“I mean it’s a fascinating idea for science fiction and metaphysics,” Armin concludes, setting down his empty coffee cup. “But the reality is we’ll probably never know. Heck, we probably won’t even get out of this solar system unless something about our technology drastically changes.”

“So, what you're saying is that we're stuck waiting for the Singularity to happen." Jean chuckles when Armin rolls his eyes. "What? It's a possibility; an improbable one, but could happen. Also, what if someone comes here? Like, I've always thought aliens are going to find us before we find them.”

“Jean, this is a backwater solar system on the edge of the galaxy,” Armin says matter-of-factly. “Who’s going to want to come here? We’re literally the Hicksville of the cosmos.”

They stare at each other for a brief moment and then both burst out laughing. Jean raises his hands in defeat. “Okay, you got me there.”

“So speaking of home systems, where are you from?” Armin winces internally at how awkwardly he transitions topics, but Jean just smirks and accepts it.

“I’m a Masshole, born and raised. That’s someone from Massachusetts,” he explains when Armin looks a little startled. “Actually, this is my first time living out of state. I went to UMass Amherst for my undergrad and my masters.”

Armin does some quick math in his head. He’s guessing Jean’s masters would have taken him about two years, so assuming he didn’t take a gap year or two before starting graduate school and that he’s not super far along in his PhD (he is, apparently, still doing course work), he has to be somewhere around twenty-six or twenty-seven. He doesn’t _look_ that much older than Armin, but Armin supposes he could be somewhere in his early thirties at his oldest. It’s not that an age gap matters terribly to Armin, but he makes a mental note of it all the same.

“I’d never lived anywhere besides California before coming here,” Armin offers. “I grew up in Shiganshina and then I moved up north to go to UC Berkeley for my bachelors.”

Jean whistles and Armin feels his cheeks heating up again. “Hardcore.”

Jean asks some questions about California and Shiganshina as the sky rapidly darkens outside. The further they get into November the shorter the days become, much to Armin's dismay. The darkness of a New York winter has been almost as difficult for him to deal with as the transition to a colder climate. Noting the change in lighting, Armin takes a moment to glance down at his phone and realizes it’s 5:30: he’ll have to go in a few minutes if he wants to catch the last direct bus back to the east side. Jean notices him looking.

“Gotta split?”

“Yeah, sorry. There’s a bus I have to catch. But this was nice.” After over an hour of talking to Jean he feels comfortable enough to crack his own wicked grin. “I’ve finally forgiven you for breaking our copier.”

Jean leans his face on his hand again. “Jerk,” he chides without any heat. “Listen man, I liked talking to you too. I dunno if this is a weird thing to ask, but can I add you on Facebook? If you have one, that is.”

“No, it’s not weird. I’m just under my real name. I’ll accept a friend request.”

“Great!”

They stand up, don their winter gear, and collect their belongings. Stepping out of _Zeke’s_ is like stepping into an icebox and Armin gives a dramatic shiver as he and Jean walk towards the bus stop together. “Yah’e a West Coast softie, ahn’tcha Blondie?” Jean teases in affected drawl, leaning in a little to speak into Armin’s ear. Armin doesn’t really think about it before he elbows Jean; it feels like the natural thing to do. Jean just snickers.

“Welp,” Jean says when they reach the Plexiglas shelter of the bus stop. “I actually live a few blocks away so I’ll be on my way. I-I’ll be in touch.” He raises a hand in a somewhat awkward farewell and starts to keep walking down the street.

“Hang on,” Armin blurts. For once he’s speaking without really thinking things through beforehand. For some reason he doesn’t want Jean to leave without some kind of concrete plan for them to meet again. He grasps around in his memory bank and pulls out the first plausible—to his mind—excuse he can think of. “I . . . I was serious about wanting to know more about posthumanism. Do have any books you’d recommend?”

Jean stops to consider. “Yeah, actually. There’s this new one I like by Nile Dok that’s pretty readable. Not that _you_ couldn’t read philosophy if you wanted, that’s not what I meant, it’s just that sometimes these books are unnecessarily dense—,” He clears his throat to stop his rambling. “Yes, I have a book. I will lend it to you. I’ll drop it off at your office tomorrow, since I’m going to Pixis to teach that morning anyway.”

“Ok. I’ll read it this weekend and we can talk about it on Monday,” Armin says with more confidence than he really feels. _Is now really the time to take on extra work? What about that stack of grading you have to do this weekend? What are you doing Armin?_

For a moment, Jean just stares at him in surprise. His cheeks are tinged pink again, but that could just be from the cold. Then he smiles that surprisingly sweet smile that Armin remembers from outside Jean’s office. “Ok. Bookclub it is.”

Armin’s stomach does a little flip. He nods an affirmative to Jean. “We can go to _Zeke’s_ again.”

“Actually,” Jean’s voice sounds unusually tentative, at least compared to how confident he’d been acting all afternoon. “How about we talk about it over dinner?”

“Yeah.” Armin smiles shyly up at Jean through his lashes. “Yeah, let’s do that.”                                                    

* * *

When Armin receives Jean’s friend request later that evening, he’s a little surprised to see that Jean’s profile picture is of him wearing khakis and a goofy novelty tie, one arm thrown around a plump middle-aged woman whose face looks so similar to Jean’s she can only be his mother. They seem to be in some kind of verdant sunny park and they’re both beaming out of the screen up at him, huge grins splitting their faces. He finds it endearing that Jean’s so open about being close to someone in his family. For some reason, Armin had expected to see something slightly more pretentious from his new friend. 

Obviously, after he accepts the request he goes through Jean’s profile to try to pick up some more juicy details. Their conversation today focused a lot on their work and Armin finds himself curious about the basics of Jean Kirstein. A quick scan of the profile rewards him with a few tidbits:

Jean is from Southwall Massachusetts.

He only has two family members listed on his profile. His mother, Gretchen Kirstein, and some cousin named Ella Pickles with a Spongebob icon. Armin is unsure if this is a real cousin. 

Jean's twenty-six years old.

His birthday is April 7.

His music taste looks to be some kind of obscure alternative rock that fits more with Armin’s original assessment of Jean as slightly hipster.

He appears in a lot of photos with a short, tan buff guy with a buzz cut and a tall thin woman with thick brown hair. The three of them are often pictured clutching plastic cups and making silly faces or standing outside of amusement park rides sporting giant smiles. Jean's cover photo is the two of them playfully dunking him into an ocean--probably the Atlantic since Jean hails from Massachusetts. Armin sees from the tags that their names are Connie Springer-Blouse and Sasha Springer-Blouse. So, probably married then. He confirms this hunch by scrolling past a photo of the two of them at the altar while Jean stands off to the side, probably acting as Connie's best man. The picture immediately following is of the three of them on a dance floor, same clothes, faces red from alcohol and laughter. Armin can't help but observe that Jean looks very handsome in a suit. 

Jean has not posted his sexuality to his Facebook.

Suddenly feeling abashed about creeping on his new acquaintance’s profile Armin exits the app. He flicks to his messages, pulls up his conversation with Mikasa, and starts typing.

_So I guess I have some updates for you . . ._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [3/4/17: Edited slightly for more continuity with the rest of the story about the nature of Armin's anxiety. Nothing's significantly different, just a few lines here and there.]
> 
> Hi all, thanks for reading! My main note is that a lot of the technical stuff is Wikipedia-fueled handwaving, so please feel free to jump in with any corrections or comments! My strategy is to provide minimal details and be as vague as possible because philosophy, earth science, and astrophysics/metaphysics are definitely not my fields. More characters are coming soon! I wanted to sneak Mikasa and Eren in this time because they're so important in Armin's life, but next time I'll be introducing Jean's cohort, mwahaha. After reading some of Isayama's recent blog posts (and, of course, chapter 90) I've decided to go with an Armin who's talented and smart, but a bit childish. More on that to come. Also, my original draft had Jean giving a much worse rant about Erwin Smith but I decided that trash-talking your adviser on a first date is a bit like talking about your "terrible ex" xD Plus, I want to convey that Jean respects Erwin, even if he doesn't always agree with him, so hopefully that came across. Also, Jean's a Masshole, I've decided. Also, also: I changed his hometown because I already used Trost as the name of an academic building, ack! I got as a close as I could though.
> 
> I appreciate all comments and kudos! :)


	3. A Guest Lecturer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armin meets the philosophy department and overthinks his developing attraction to Jean.

Armin finds a relatively thick paperback book waiting for him in his mailbox outside the TA office the next day. When he pulls it out the first thing he notices are the two large sticky-notes tacked on the front which are covered in Jean’s scrawling handwriting.

_Blondie,_

_So I know we said we were going to meet on Monday to discuss this, but I had forgotten that Dok is actually coming here to give a talk on Thursday. If you’re interested, it’s from 5:30-6:30 in the Zackly Auditorium in Trost and there’s a Q &A-plus-wine reception afterwards. As far as I know, the wine is coming from Smith’s personal stash so it’ll be good shit, plus the department always shells out for decent grub. So the takeaway is: free wine and free food all for the low, low price of some posthumanist philosophy. Of course, you don’t have to have finished the book by then and, of course, I still want to go to dinner with you on Monday (talk or no talk, book or no book) but I thought I’d pass this intel along. _

_J_

Armin carefully pries the notes from the laminated cover and pockets them for later consideration. He then inspects the paperback for details about its owner as well as its contents. The polite term for its condition would be “well-used.” It doesn’t look old—the pages are still white—but the spine is broken in several places and one corner looks like it’s been bent before. The cover is black with a white outline of a human figure standing in the Vitruvian Man position in the center. A stark sans-serif font proclaims _Transformative Posthumanism_ across the top of the cover, while _Nile Dok_ appears at the bottom in a smaller letters of the same type. Armin turns it over to see that there’s a black-and-white photo of Dok gazing sternly into the middle distance on the back. He’s a morose looking man with hollow cheeks, a pronounced frown, straggly dark hair, and a stringy goatee. There’s no blurb to go with the photo, only praises for the scholarship. Overall it’s a very somber looking book which confirms his impression of postmodern philosophies. He cracks it open to a random spot and uncovers another noteworthy fact about Jean Kirstein.

He’s a book destroyer.

Every page Armin flips past is littered with Jean’s messy script. Whole paragraphs are underlined in black or blue ink. Asterisks and exclamation points dot the margins. There’s evidence of extensive dog-earing on several of the corners. Armin sighs to himself and tucks the abused volume into his backpack. _I’m_ never _lending him any of my books._

He nods to Marco when he enters the office and sets up shop for office hours. The undergrads just had a quiz in class today so he’s not sure he’ll be getting anyone, but he pulls up the most recent lecture notes on his computer anyway and settles in to wait. After a cursory glance at the empty doorway, he also pulls up Facebook. He opens a chat window with Jean and starts typing.

_I thought I told you to stop calling me blondie._

He minimizes the page and takes out _Transformative Posthumanism,_ opening it up to the introduction. He’s only a few sentences into the text proper (and about five lines into Jean’s extensive commentary) when he hears the blip of Facebook’s chat system. He mouths “sorry” when Marco jumps and stares accusatorily over at him, then quickly mutes his laptop’s sound before opening up Jean’s response.

_I’m an incorrigible scoundrel. So can you make it?_

Armin pulls the sticky notes out of his pocket and scans the details again. When he looks up he sees that Jean has sent him a series of further messages.

_Not to oversell this shindig, but Smith and Dok have major personal beef so there’s bound to be a little bit of extra drama_

_Like, sex drama. Dok ran off with Smith’s wife several years back, it was a huuuuge scandal. They were already scholarly rivals and then that blew it all to hell. Conferences are a blast_

_I’m surprised the department even invited him tbh. Maybe Ral told them to play nice?_

_Anyway._

_Food, wine, intrigue: what more can a starving graduate student ask for?_

Armin shakes his head at Jean’s rumormongering but finds himself smiling anyway.

_You /are/ incorrigible. And a gossip. I can make it but I’ll have to leave right around 7 because I have to run a lab at 7:30._

_So I probably shouldn’t actually drink this wine you keep mentioning_

_For the record if I /do/ go it’s not for all this drama, it’s only for the talk :P_

_Also what have you done to this poor book???_

_You monster! :(_

Someone enters the office and Armin glances up. It’s just Ymir, however, looking harassed and carrying a stack of papers. Armin waves and turns back to his chat.

_It’s called active reading, smartass. :P_

_It’s studying 101 everyone knows that_

“Oi, Armin.” Ymir is at his desk now, dropping her papers down beside his laptop and startling him. She’s tall and lanky with dark freckled skin and a silky black bob that’s always falling into her eyes. She’s slightly intimidating with her faded Metallica t-shirt, heavily pierced face, and perpetually annoyed expression, but over the year-and-a-half that he’s been at Reiss Armin’s learned Ymir has her kinder side. She mostly reserves it for her wife and her students, however: hassling Armin is always on her docket. “Hange gave me the quizzes from this morning’s lectures.  They say you’re supposed do the odd numbered pages and I’ll do the even ones.”

Armin sighs. “Fine, I’ll get started on them tonight.”

“Can you have them done by Friday, champ? Hange wants to give them back by Tuesday.”

He groans but nods. _Dammit, I thought I would have the weekend._  It’s going to be a long week. All-nighters might be involved. _Or you could skip out on this talk. Jean would understand._

For some reason Armin doesn’t want to consider this perfectly reasonable option.

“Woah, what the fuck is this?” Ymir picks up Jean’s book gingerly, holding it a bit away from herself and wrinkling her nose like it stinks. “‘Transformative Posthumanism’? Trippy. And who’s this creepy bastard on the back? Are you in a cult or something, Armin?”

Going slightly red, Armin leans forward and snatches the volume away from her. To her credit, she lets it go without much resistance. “ _No_. A f-friend is lending it to me.”

“Yeah? And does this ‘friend’ wear a black hood and supply your ‘medicinal’ herbs?” She cackles at her own joke.

“I-It’s an academic book,” Armin insists, hating the note of pleading that enters his voice. “Now if you’ll excuse me I’ll get started on these quizzes.”

Ymir plants her hands on her thin hips. “Ouch, you’re snippy today,” she jibes, but she leaves him and heads to her own desk. Armin quickly sticks Jean’s notes in _Transformative Posthumanism_ and shoves the book back into his bag, his cheeks still feeling warm. He turns back to his computer to see that Jean has sent him yet another message.

_Also, y u gotta be so judgey? Are all earth scientists fucking saints or something? :p_

“Oh, don’t look at me like that, Marco. Jesus,” he hears Ymir snap. He looks over to see her turn in her chair to face him. “Armin,” she begins very seriously. “I’ll support you even if you do join a creepy cult. That would be hella metal of you and I’d actually be proud.” She touches one hand to her heart with mock-sincerity and gives him a metal-horn salute with the other.

“Ymir!” Marco exclaims, exasperated. 

“Also Historia says to remind you to respond to our Thanksgiving party Facebook event.” And with that she settles her headphones over her ears and returns to her own work. Armin meets Marco’s worried eyes across the room. He smiles and shrugs to show he’s really not offended. _Just Ymir being Ymir: she scared me at first, but she's really more bark than bite._ In fact, her show of solidarity was quite touching. He goes to Historia’s event page and checks that yes, he will be joining the Reiss household for Thanksgiving-- and thank God someone's stepped up to host this year since Marco, who naturally takes care of most social events for the Earth Science's department, is going out of town--and then types a quick response to Jean.

_Yes. We get halos instead of diplomas when we graduate_

For the next few minutes the telltale ellipses appears and disappears several times while Jean types out and then apparently rethinks his reply. Armin reflects that these three glowing dots are probably one of the creepiest features of modern communication, given how much they can reveal without actually saying anything. He finds himself holding his breath, just a little bit. When a message from Jean finally does pop up on his screen, it’s funny, but also, for some reason, slightly disappointing.

_We’re not so lucky in the philosophy department. They don’t even give us jobs, the cheap bastards :p_

* * *

The rest of Tuesday and Wednesday are a bit of a slog with the extra work of having to grade Hange’s quizzes by Friday, but Armin soldiers on. He tries to make some progress on _Transformative Posthumanism_ but it’s slower going than he initially anticipated, especially because he finds himself reading through Jean’s marginalia just as carefully as the actual text. It’s an oddly intimate exercise, almost like having direct access to Jean’s thoughts. He can’t help but smile when he notices that Jean asks questions or offers criticisms more often than he outright agrees with Dok’s claims. It definitely tallies with his admittedly limited understanding of his new philosopher friend. Overall, it’s fascinating and distracting work, taking up more of Armin’s time and attention than it probably should. At one point he even finds himself writing a response to Jean (on a sticky-note, of course; even if he wanted to write in the book itself—which he doesn’t—Jean has left him hardly any room) when he thinks the other man has missed a crucial point that Dok is trying to make. If only correcting problem sets were this interesting.

Thursday morning rolls around and Armin stumbles into his bathroom to take a shower before heading off to class. When he gets out, he reaches into his box of contact lenses and groans when he realizes that he was so distracted with work that forgot to stop by the health center and pick up his refills yesterday. Mumbling curses under his breath, Armin fishes out his glasses from his bedside drawer and sticks them on his nose. The style is a tad dated (the lenses are thin rectangles and the frames are thick and black, as was more popular in his college days) but they do _work_. He prefers not to wear them because he looks geeky and owlish enough without them and they take that aesthetic to a whole new level. He sighs at his reflection. _I look like a huge dweeb. There’s no helping it, I suppose._ At least he can see.

Everyone he runs into during the day comments on his new look. Marco, of course, politely compliments him and Ymir laughs and calls him an egghead. Reiner Braun, an international student from Germany and one of the most handsome and charismatic geologists whom Armin has ever met, merely raises his thin eyebrows and gives Armin a thumbs up; Armin decides to accept it as a gesture of approval. Hange asks him about the specifics of the prescription and how bad his vision impairment is for their “personal files”. His students just stare at him, unabashed.

“You look extra nerdy today, Mr. Arlert,” one of them quips after lecture.

“Thanks, Floch.” Armin doesn’t really have the heart to tell him off.

After a day of double takes and covert giggling, Armin’s pretty fed up. By the time he gets done with his endless rotation of teaching, classes, and meetings, the health center is closed so he’ll be contactless for another half a day at least. He considers cancelling on Jean—he does still have a lot of to do, after all—but he’s halfway through Dok’s book and he has a lot of questions. And, he admits to himself sheepishly, he is a _little_ curious about the salacious details of the Smith-Dok scandal.

That, and the possibility of seeing Jean again pulls at him in a way that’s difficult to ignore. This realization causes an alarm bell to go off in Armin’s mind. _Why am I worried about what a guy I literally met one week ago will think of my glasses but also determined to go to this event and see him anyway?_ The question unsettles Armin. If he’s honest with himself, he thinks he’s building up a crush and it’s working at a speed that’s unusual for him. Barely one date in with the guy and he’s already spending time he doesn’t really have perusing philosophy books and going to lectures way outside his field. It had seemed so natural earlier in the week to arrange another date for next Monday—a respectable amount of time away—but this uncomfortable mixture of eagerness and unease at the opportunity of meeting sooner throws him for a loop. His first impulse is to slam down on the breaks, hard, before he crashes himself in a spectacular way, but his scientist’s training to gather data takes over.

 _First, I need to determine what exactly this feeling is. If I see him again maybe I can get a better sense of it. Then I’ll know how to proceed from there. As for the glasses, I’ll take them off once I get to the lecture hall. I can just listen to the lecture, I don’t need_ _to_ see _Dok properly in order to pay attention. Plus, Jean might want to have his book on hand while he’s talking to the guy, so I really should go and bring it back to him._

With his mind made up, he takes the bus to west campus at 5:15 and finds his way back to Trost hall. When he enters the building he sees that Zackly auditorium is immediately to his left. People are drifting toward it and a low murmur issues from within. Taking a deep breath to still the fluttering in his chest, Armin pulls off his glasses and steps inside.

He immediately recognizes he’s miscalculated. The auditorium lights are lower than he expected and the older architecture casts shadows that make it even more difficult for a vision-impaired Armin to get a bearing on his surroundings. Feeling his stomach twist in discomfort, he replaces his glasses and peers around as everything comes into focus.

Zackly is smaller than the auditoriums Armin’s used to in the Pixis building, but it still looks like it can seat about one hundred and fifty people. Like the rest of Trost hall its design is largely gothic revival, with arched stained-glass windows sporting the school crest, dark wooden paneling, and a fanciful fresco of ancient heroes splashed across the ceiling. The chairs of the staggered arena-style seating match the paneling and look distinctly uncomfortable. Only soft recessed lighting updates the room’s appearance.

There’s a low stage to Armin’s left where several professional-looking people have gathered. He picks out Nile Dok by the podium, wearing a navy suit and looking around warily, like animal deciding between fight and flight. Armin sympathizes. _This is a very intimidating place. Almost like a court room._

“Armin?”

His heart skips a beat when he sees Jean coming towards him from across the room, gawking a little. He notes that skip in his mental log of worrying signs. Jean’s dressed a bit more nicely than usual today: he’s wearing an olive green dress shirt that’s tucked into his jeans for once and his black waistcoat is actually buttoned up this time. The color combination suits him. Armin winces, suddenly more aware than ever of how ridiculous he must look with his dated eyewear. He looks down at the floorboards and mumbles an explanation.

“Y-yeah I know, I know. I have glasses and they look weird. I’ve been hearing about it all day, so please don’t say anything? I just ran out of contacts and I haven’t had time to pick them up so I have to wear these. It’s temporary.”

Jean’s uncharacteristically silent. Armin glances up through his bangs to see that the other man is just staring at him, his mouth slightly agape and his cheeks the darkest pink Armin’s seen on him yet. “Jean?”

“What? Oh.” Jean closes his mouth and looks away, rubbing his hand on the back of his neck. “I-I don’t think they look weird. W-who told you that? I mean,” he catches himself. “Not that you don’t look good without them, you always look good—that is . . . oh, fuck it.” Jean stops babbling, takes a deep breath, and then smiles warmly down at Armin, whose chest is suddenly feeling very tight. _Not good._ Jean’s flush hasn’t entirely subsided but he manages to meet and hold Armin’s gaze. “Let’s start over. Welcome to an evening of academic dick-measuring with the Reiss University philosophy department. I’m your host Jean Kirstein and I really like your glasses. Let’s sit down, shall we?”

He gestures broadly at the auditorium seating and starts walking away. Feeling slightly dazed, Armin follows. Jean leads him up to a group of three people, all around their own age, huddled in the back. They all have notebooks laid out in front of them on the little desks that are attached to the chairs, ready for the lecture to begin. Armin recognizes the beefy build, beaky nose, and distinctive hair of Bowl Cut from his trip to the philosophy TA office and there’s something a little familiar about the short blonde woman with heavily lidded eyes and an icy blue stare sitting to his right. Maybe she was also in the office last Friday? The pale woman with chin-length auburn curls chatting animatedly to Bowl Cut on his other side is completely new to Armin, however.

Jean shuffles through the aisle to plop down next to Blonde, who barely spares him a glance. “Oh, _you’re_ here.” Bowl Cut and Curls stop talking to peer over at them curiously.

Rather than get offended by Blonde’s tone, Jean just chuckles and rubs his hands together somewhat maniacally. “Yes, Annie. I’m here. Wouldn’t miss this show for the world.”

“You brought a plus-one,” Curls crows, sweeping Armin once over with narrowed brown eyes like she’s trying to x-ray him. Her gaze lingers on his glasses but Armin doesn’t find himself as worried about it since Jean complimented them. More data for his log.

“Oh, right. Armin, this is Hitch Dreyse, Marlowe Freudenberg, and Annie Leonhart.” Jean points to each of them in turn. Hitch grins like a cat about to eat a mouse and waggles her fingers in greeting, Marlowe nods seriously, and Annie just shoots him a cursory look from under her blond bangs before turning her attention back to the stage area. “Marlowe is my fellow third-year and Hitch and Annie are firsties. Everyone, this is Armin Arlert. Play nice.” He gives a pointed look to Hitch.

“What do you study, Armin?” Marlowe asks somewhat pompously, like he’s interviewing Armin for a job.

“Uh, I’m a second-year grad student in the Earth and Atmospheric Sciences department. I’m a marine geologist.”

Marlowe and Hitch exchange a surprised glance. Even Annie’s looking at him out of the corner of her eyes now, assessing.

“So nothing to do with philosophy then,” Hitch blurts, smirking at Jean. Jean opens his mouth to retort but Marlowe gets there first.

“Hitch, how can you say such a thing? Doesn’t philosophy have broad applicability across the disciplinary boundaries? We should welcome all scientists who show an interest, as Armin has.” He beams over at a slightly bemused Armin. “Jean himself works on an area of convergence between the hard sciences and philosophical discourse. And surely every scholar should have at least some interest in ethics, regardless of subject area.”

Jean leans his head towards Armin and stage-whispers in his ear, “What he said.” He nods back in Marlowe’s direction and grins. Jean’s proximity triggers a tingling sensation under Armin’s skin that lingers even after he moves away. He notes that too.

Hitch bursts into a high pitched and wheezing laugh. “ _Fuck_ ,” she says when she starts to get her breath back. “You really are the real deal, aren’t you Marlowe?”

“Why are you in graduate school if you’re not interested in furthering the cause of philosophy?” Marlowe scolds without a hint of irony and Hitch dissolves into giggles again.

“I find philosophy really fascinating.” Armin pipes up, still feeling the need to defend his presence in spite of Marlowe’s approving speech. _I can handle myself._ “I’ve been reading Dok’s book, it’s very compelling. As an earth scientist I have to speak out against a worldview which privileges the Anthropocene.”

“And you should hear his thoughts on multiverse theory,” Jean chimes in, smirking and clearly enjoying himself. Was that a hint of pride in his voice?

Marlowe cocks his head slightly to one side, like he’s puzzling something out. “Is that what you stopped by to talk to Jean about last week, Armin? Metaphysics? If so, Annie here might have been more helpful.”

“He’s been to the office?” Hitch hisses at almost the exact same moment Annie drawls, “Leave me out of this.”

“Okay, new topic.” Jean claps his hands together and speaks over his colleagues. “Anyone wanna place bets on whether or not Dok will try to hit Smith this time?”

Before anyone can reply, a tall blond man walks to the front of the stage and calls for silence in a deep voice. Everyone immediately complies and offers their rapt attention while Armin studies this new individual. He’s incredibly well-built, the definition of his muscles obvious even through the thick fabric of his tan sport jacket. He looks to be somewhere in his mid-to-late-forties, with deep set clear blue eyes, a solid clean-shaven jaw, and very strong eyebrows. Even at this distance Armin can tell he’s quite attractive physically and made even more so by his commanding presence. There is one surprising detail, however: his right arm appears to be a prosthetic. _I wonder what the story behind that is._ As the man welcomes them to the evening’s lecture, Armin looks over at Jean for guidance.

Jean leans in again to whisper, “That’s Smith.” Armin looks back at the handsome man in astonishment. From some of Jean’s descriptions he’d pictured someone a little . . . flightier and eccentric. This man looks like he should be advertising expensive liquor and sports cars in _Men’s Health Magazine_. Reading his expression, Jean offers a further explanation: “The undergrads call him 'Professor Handsome.'” Armin fights off a snicker and Jean grins again.

“His wife really left him for Nile Dok?” he asks incredulously. Jean lets out a “ha!” that has their neighbors shushing him and Smith himself squinting up suspiciously in their general direction. Jean claps his hand to his mouth and leans away but he’s still looking over at Armin, his eyes crinkled with suppressed mirth. Despite being embarrassed at drawing attention and saying something that was perhaps a little impolitic, making Jean laugh has Armin feeling absurdly pleased with himself.

_Noted._

“And without further ado, let us welcome our good friend and colleague Professor Nile Dok for his lecture on redefining the category of ‘human.’” Smith starts a loud clap and the rest of the auditorium obediently follows suit while Dok takes the podium. The scrawnier man gives an awkward wave to the crowd and begins paging through a stack of papers he has set out in front of him. Nothing in Smith’s carefully polite introduction seemed untoward to Armin, but Dok’s mouth is set in a hard, tense line as he prepares to speak.

“Thank you, Professor Smith, for your _kind_ opening words.” _Ah, there it is._ “And many warm thanks to everyone who has ventured out here on this cold winter evening. I’d like to begin with the tricky business of defining the term ‘posthumanism,’ which Cary Wolfe dubbed an ‘opportunity’ back in 2009 . . . ”

For the next forty-five minutes, Armin shifts his focus completely to the contents of the lecture and all of his worries about Jean and the possible feelings he might be developing for him fade into the background. Despite his sullen appearance, Dok is a good speaker. Armin decides only a few minutes into the talk that he has to take notes, so he pulls out a pad of paper and starts frantically jotting stuff down. There are several times during the talk when he finds himself consulting _Transformative Posthumanism_ to check an argument that Dok’s advanced. At one point the guest lecturer makes the same claim that Armin was arguing with Jean about via sticky-note and Armin excitedly turns to his companion to point it out. “Told you,” he mouths, grinning. Jean blinks at him once, scans the sticky-note and starts shaking his head. "He needs more sources, I'll explain later," he murmurs. Armin cocks one eyebrow but immediately tunes back into the lecture.

When he’s finished speaking and they’ve all clapped for him once again, Smith stands up to moderate the Q&A. Armin’s hand instantly goes up. He sees Jean turn to look at him out of the corner of his eye but keeps his focus forward so that he can catch Smith’s attention. The first question goes to a short red-headed woman in the front row, but Smith sends the second one Armin’s way with a raised eyebrow. Armin can read the look: it’s a challenge. _“And who are you?”_ He’s not intimidated, however. This is an academic situation, and he is a scholar with a pertinent question. Several, actually. He briefly considers asking for further clarification on the passage he and Jean are debating, but figures that would be rude: he should hear Jean's explanation first. So he chooses another puzzling section of _Transformative Posthumanism_. “Hello sir, thank you for the wonderful talk. I was wondering if you could speak to this point you make on page forty-three of your recent book . . .”

Dok nods through his query and responds expansively. Armin spares a glance over at Smith and notes that his expression has changed: he looks a little impressed. He can’t help but feel a touch of professional pride. _I’m not just a one trick pony._ Jean and his colleagues are all staring at him now. “You’ve got some guts, kid,” Annie whispers to him across Jean. There’s the faintest uptick in her lips.

“Thanks?”

Jean whistles lowly. “A compliment from Annie, wow. Armin, you’ve been blessed.” Annie punches him on the arm—hard _,_ from the way he grunts in pain. But he recovers quickly and holds out his hand to Armin for a high five, sporting a dopey smug grin. Armin feels his own smile widen as he slaps Jean’s palm.

Smith fields a few more questions (Jean gets in a rather pointed one about transhumanism’s relationship to renaissance humanism which makes Smith frown thoughtfully and Dok smirk) before politely inviting everyone in the auditorium to the wine reception. “Now the _real_ fun begins,” Jean says, standing up and stretching before bending over to collect his belongings.

“I’m not taking any of your drunk asses home so you better pace yourselves,” Annie warns before pushing past Jean and Armin and heading off to the reception on her own. Hitch hurriedly gathers up her coat and bag to chase after her colleague. “Wait for us!” She grabs Marlowe by the wrist and tugs him along with her. As he trips past Armin, Marlowe shoots him an earnest compliment: “You’re a credit to your profession, Armin.” And then they’re gone, Hitch jumping down the stairs while Marlowe protests.

Jean and Armin lock eyes and burst out laughing.

“Well, that’s the Scooby gang,” Jean chuckles, gesturing for Armin to lead the way out of the aisle.  They fall in beside each other comfortably as they join the throng making their way across the hall for the reception.

“Which one? The real one or the _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ one?”

Jean considers. “I’m going with _Buffy_ because it’s cooler, but I don’t know how the characters would match up." 

Armin’s pleased that Jean gets the reference. “It would depend on which season we’re talking about, I think,” he muses. “Work on your witty banter and topical nineties references and I’ll get back to you.”  

Jean raises one eyebrow. “Now I’m worried.” Armin cackles. “Really worried.”

Fewer people attend the reception than the talk. Dok is immediately cornered by Marlowe, Hitch, and several other graduate students. Armin decides that he should probably eat something before he goes to lab or he’ll be dead on his feet, so he makes his way over to the surprisingly plentiful sandwich platters that are laid out on a nearby table. Jean trails after him as he marvels over the selection, “Wow, you weren’t kidding about the food.”

“Yeah, they feed us pretty well around here. Keeps the morale up.” They pile up their plates and Jean pours out a plastic cup of red wine to go with it. He offers the bottle to Armin, who shakes his head.

“Lab later,” he explains.

“Are you sure? Smith doesn’t break out his stash for just any event.” He leans forward conspiratorially. “I think he’s trying to show up Dok.”

Armin glances over to where Dok is now arguing emphatically with Marlowe and then locates Smith. “Professor Handsome” is engrossed in a conversation with a much shorter man with a black undercut who has his back turned to Armin. “You know, I haven’t really seen much evidence of this fight you keep mentioning,” he confesses, arching an eyebrow at Jean. “I think you’re exaggerating.”

Jean huffs, indignant. “Oh it’s there, _trust me_. It’s just simmering under the surface. This wine is a clue.” He hefts the bottle of red for emphasis. Armin doesn’t know much about wine (a discredit to his California upbringing) but has to admit the label does look pricey. “This is ‘screw-you-for-running-off-with-my-wife’ wine.”

“Now I see what you mean about being in the Scooby gang,” Armin says, fighting off a smile.

“Oh, fuck off.”

A throat clears behind them, making them both jump. Erwin Smith has come over, accompanied by his short friend, who’s glaring at them with hard gray eyes and wearing an expression like someone’s holding a pile of dung under his nose. He’s impeccably well-dressed in a tailored black suit that makes him look distinctly unapproachable. Armin gulps. _Did they hear us?_ Armin feels his cheeks reddening and glances over to see that Jean has a guilty flush as well.

“Pour us a bit of that, would you Jean?” Smith’s tone is congenial and he’s smiling, as if he hasn’t just caught them gossiping. While Jean scrambles to comply Smith turns his attention to Armin and offers him his prosthetic hand. Armin takes it, heart still racing at the possibility of having offended a professor.

“I don’t believe we’ve met before. I’m Erwin Smith and this is my colleague Levi Ackerman.”

“Ar-Armin Arlert. Pleased to meet you, Professor Smith. Professor Ackerman.” He nods at Levi Ackerman. Levi Ackerman’s frown deepens in response. _Intimidating_.

“Please, just Erwin is fine. We were impressed with your question at the lecture. I don’t believe I’ve seen you around before, Armin. What department are you with?”

“Uh, I’m in EAS. Earth and Atmospheric Sciences,” he rushes to explain. “Dok’s talk was wonderful. I’m very interested in integrating the humanities and sciences, I think there’s a lot we can do for each other.” Beside him Jean makes a funny noise which he masks as a cough.

“I agree,” Erwin smiles warmly down at him. “You wouldn’t happen to be one of Hange’s students, would you?”

Armin blinks up at him in surprise while Jean hands cups of wine to his advisers, his cheeks still a touch pink. “Yes. You know Hange?”

Ackerman snorts but is looking at Armin with considerably more interest now. “Figures. You _do_ look like the type of person who would get caught up in Shitty-Glasses’ messes.” Armin’s mouth drops open. Neither Erwin nor Jean look particularly scandalized, however.

Erwin sighs and claps a hand to his colleague’s shoulder. “Pardon Levi’s language; he means it as a term of endearment. Yes, Hange is a friend of ours. We go way back. You’re very lucky to work with such a . . . meticulous scholar.”

“That’s one word for it,” Levi grumbles.

“Yes,” Armin says, recovering his voice. “Hange’s really amazing.”

“Please, Armin, don’t be a stranger. We always like a diverse crowd at our talks.” He turns his attention to his hovering advisee. “Jean, I got your draft and I’m sending it back with comments tonight. Even though I don’t agree with all of your points, I think it’s overall a strong piece and you should consider shipping it out for publication. Definitely put it on the docket for review at your A exam.”

“O-oh.” Instead of looking pleased at the compliment, Jean pales like he’s suddenly feeling ill. “Thanks for taking a look at it, I appreciate your comments.”

Erwin nods and turns to Ackerman. “Well, what do you think? Time to hash it out with Dok?”

Ackerman knocks back his plastic cup and drains it, as if it’s a shot of tequila and not a fine vintage. “Finally.”

Armin watches them walk away, back towards the opposite corner where Marlowe is still rattling away at Dok. “They’re . . . intense,” he begins.

“Yeah, sorry about that.” Jean’s eyes follow Erwin and Ackerman as well, his expression still uneasy. Shaking himself, he polishes off his own cup and reaches for the bottle before offering an explanation to Armin's unasked question. “Ugh, I bet he really tore into that draft. I’m gonna need at least two more cups of wine before I can read those comments.”

Armin observes Erwin begin talking calmly with Dok, who’s suddenly very red in the face. He turns back to Jean and offers what he hopes is a convincing smile. “I don’t know him well, but I actually think he really likes you.”

“What?” Jean’s eyebrows shoot up and he himself turns to scowl perplexedly over at Erwin. “Oh, he probably doesn’t mean that stuff about publication. I came down hard on some of his pet subjects in that paper. I keep thinking he’ll be letting me go any day now.” He’s silent for a moment as he considers Armin’s words, then he sighs and rubs his free hand over the back of his neck in a gesture that Armin is beginning to recognize communicates his embarrassment. “Shit. I’m sorry, man. I don’t mean to get all mopey on you.”

Armin waves off the apology. _Why can’t Jean see it? Where is this self-doubt coming from?_ “He respects you, I can tell. Professors don’t joke about publication.”

“Yeah, well,” Jean takes another sip of his wine and then seems to recover some of his old spark. He grins cheekily down at Armin. “I _am_ hanging out with the cool new kid, so I guess I get extra brownie points for that.”

Armin rolls his eyes and pushes his glasses back up his nose to mask his returning blush. “I hate to break it to you, but if _I’m_ the life of the party, then your party’s pretty dull.”

His companion laughs but gives Armin an assessing look out of the corner of his eyes that lingers a little too long. “Don’t sell yourself short.”

Armin’s heart speeds up a little. Suddenly needing to do something with his hands, he pulls out his phone to check the time and realizes he has to start a lab in twenty minutes. “Oh crap, I gotta go.” He folds up his untouched sandwich in a paper plate for later and buttons up his jacket with his free hand before turning back to Jean. “Thanks for inviting me this was very . . . eye-opening.”

“And fun?” Jean asks. Armin reflects that he can grow to appreciate this hesitant side of Jean that keeps appearing, especially if he’s going to bite his lip like that.

“Maybe, a little bit, yes,” Armin teases, but averts his gaze. _It’s not fair. It’s just not fair._

“Good. We’re still on for Monday, yeah?”

“Definitely,” Armin confirms. Jean breaks out into huge smile that has Armin feeling light-headed. He gives Jean a wave and starts to leave before he can say or do anything to dig himself deeper into this hole.

“Don’t set any freshmen on fire, Blondie!” Jean calls after him.

Armin turns back to stick his tongue out at him.

* * *

When he gets out of lab (no freshmen were harmed in the process of tonight’s experiment) he discovers he has a series of texts from Jean. Judging from the number of typos and the random words that are obviously autocorrect fails, Jean ended up making a serious dent in Erwin’s wine collection. There’s one about Dok actually throwing his drink at Ackerman, three more about the point Armin tried to make about _Transformative Posthumanism_ during the lecture, and the fourth one complains about Annie being mean to him. But it’s the last few that really have Armin smiling on the bus ride home.

_Sooo I finely opened the drafy and your were right! Smith’s comments aren’t so bas._

_Also just want retaliate that you look good in glass, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise!!_

_Ok ill stop now goodnight hope your fishers are ok_

It starts snowing as Armin makes his way back through his apartment complex and up to his door. Once he’s inside he sheds his coat and slumps down onto his couch to process. He looks back through Jean’s messages and reviews the results of his personal experiment. Jean is a dilemma. He can be easy to talk to and fun to laugh with, but he can also induce a heart-attack with just a look or a compliment. Armin wants to figure him out, get into his brain and tease out how it works. Equally, he finds himself wondering what it might be like to reach out and touch Jean, to run his hands through his hair or link their fingers together. He's definitely nursing a crush and Jean seems to reciprocate it, but Armin can’t get past the fact that they only met a week ago. What if Jean starts to think he's needy or obsessive? Jean hasn't tried to push their relationship beyond talking and occasionally flirting, so why does Armin feel such a pull towards him already? _Surely, this is too fast. I should slow things down, just in case. Take some time to think things through, not get too caught up in anything. Then review on Monday._

He leans back his head on the armrest and closes his strained eyes. He reaches up to rub the aching bridge of his nose and realizes he’s still wearing his glasses. He giggles when he remembers Jean’s reaction to them.

 _It would be rude not to reply to his texts tonight, since he sent me so many. I’ll start slowing things down tomorrow, process over the weekend . . ._ He sits up and opens up their conversation again, typing sentences that are slurred by fatigue rather than alcohol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [3/4/17: Edited ever-so-slightly for continuity about Armin's anxiety]
> 
> So, a few things. This chapter was really hard to write. When I put it in my outline weeks ago I thought it would be fun to write academic drama, but it actually took me a while to get the feel close to what I was going for. I'm still not sure if I made it. It's a little too easy for me to get caught up in details (I'm much like Armin in that respect), and I had to stop myself from getting /really/ academic with their talk. I did all kinds of weird research for this: from reading the introduction to a book on posthumanism to experimenting with autocorrect to make Jean's drunk texts more authentic. I also have even more respect for Isayama now: writing such a large cast is hard! I'm pretty happy about some of their voices--Hitch and Annie have lines from the manga, and I really love writing Marlowe, God rest his beautiful soul :(--but less pleased with others. Anyway, the point is I'm worried I'm getting stuck in these details, trying to make it feel like authentic grad school/authentic SnK characters, and the story is getting a bit lost somewhere in there xD. I'm sorry! I'd appreciate any comments about how to improve/mitigate this. 
> 
> Overall, I wanted this chapter to a) communicate Armin's developing attachment to Jean/Jean's continuing attraction to Armin b) introduce some more characters into the mix c) set up some of Armin's anxieties d) set up future plot points. But I can't help feeling like this is a holding pattern chapter. I wanted to get across that feeling of overwhelming attraction that can sometimes happen and how someone as analytic as Armin might respond to such an illogical pull. 
> 
> Let me know if there's difficulty read the "text message" portions of this chapter! I tried to be clear about who was speaking when, but could be I missed something.
> 
> Next chapter I'm taking them out of academia!! Time for some domestic Jearmin =P
> 
> All comments and kudos appreciated! :) My side-note is that I've gone through the first two chapters again to correct typos/some minor dialogue that didn't feel quite right, but the changes are not drastic. I do that sometimes.


	4. Kindred Spirits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armin gets caught up texting with Jean over the weekend. Then he receives some unexpected news which prompts him to risk opening up to his new philosopher friend. 
> 
> Opening note: the first half (or maybe more like two-thirds) of this chapter is in iPhone-style text messages. Typos/grammatical mistakes are deliberate (or have gone uncorrected xD) and the format accommodates overlapping messages. It should be clear form the text but just in case: Armin is always on the right side of the screen. I wanted to try out this formatting, but if it's really difficult to follow I can put it in something more standard! Just let me know! :)

**Jean “Dirty Philosopher” Kirstein**

**Friday 11:34 AM**

Ok Armin important question

You mentioned Buffy yesterday, so…Firefly?

**Friday 12:13 PM**

Looks like we arrived just in the nick of time.

What does that make us, Zoe?

Big damn heroes, sir!

Ain’t. We. Just.

It’s very quotable!

Hahahaha yeah

I quote it to my kids sometimes

But they don’t get it, too young :(

It’s a goddamn national tragedy

??????

???!!!!

Youuths

Today’s youth don’t get firefly

Ohhhhhhhhhhh

Students

Got it :)

OH GOD

NO!!!

Yes ofc students!!!

JESUS blondie

I’m not THAT old :P

I’m not Jesus or “blondie” :P

But on the subject of Firefly, I really do like it

But it’s probably for the best that it was cancelled

Joss would’ve eventually ruined it :(

Tbh serenity kinda already ruined it for me

The tone and feel are completely different

Where did the western music go??

And I never liked river and Simon that much anyway

But so many quotes!

I can’t look at leaves floating on the wind anymore without tearing up :(

Fall must be a nightmare for you

:’(

But actually I quite like fall

We don’t have fall in CA

Or we do, esp in north, but not like here

I love crunching in the leaves

And this thing you have over here called hot cider

But I don’t like how the days get really short

 

**Friday 1:30 PM**

You don’t have cider??

Like, it’s not my favorite thing or anything

Just seems weird :P

**Friday 3:01 PM**

I mean I’m sure it exists somewhere and we do have alcoholic cider

But I don’t remember giant gallons of it the supermarkets

We’re just not as into apples in SoCal

Also how is it not your favorite thing??

It’s warm pulpy apple juice with cinnamon in it

The best!!

…that doesn’t sound that good, when you put it like that, actually :P

Yeah, apples are kind of an institution around here

Did you go apple picking in October?

Yes!

I went with some of my cohort

Fun?

**Friday 5:26 PM**

Yeah, I like my cohort

Even Ymir, though she’s mean to me sometimes

Well, she hassles me; I think she means well though

**Friday 6:14 PM**

Woah woah woah

You know someone named Ymir?

The norse god who birthed the giants and became the earth??

Yes

Metal

She likes metal, yes

Soooo I’d offer to fight her for you, since she’s being mean

But I don’t think I can fight the entire earth

Sorry :P

It’s okay, I forgive you. ^_^

How magnanimous :P

Her wife’s name is history

Historia*

Funky lol

**Friday 7:45 PM**

The odd name that is

Not that she has a wife

Just thought I should clarify…

Oh I figured

Good

So what is it about EAS that attracts all these weird names?

Like mine? :P

Also history actually works at the elementary school

She’s a vice principle I think?

Your name’s not weird!

Historia*

Just a little old fashioned

But like in a cool German hipster way

*digs the hole deeper*

She’s some kind of admin anyway

But I can’t speak for me and Ymir

Thanks? :P

I guess it makes sense for Ymir to be an earth scientist though

Considering Ymir literally is the earth

Yw

I thought so too!

Also, I’m not sure “Hitch” and “Marlowe” are all that typical either

Not that that’s bad!!

Yeah, but they sound less epic than Ymir and Historia

I guess parents are getting more and more original. What’s up with that?

*shrug* Some people juggle geese!

Like there was that one year where there were a bunch of girls name Khaleesi

Have fun explaining that to your kid when they’re older :P

Actually, having a unique name is useful for identification purposes

(Do you also watch game of thrones??)

“My hand to god. Baby geese—goslings! They were juggled.” You’re cute

(No I don’t, but I don’t live under a rock either :P)

And I guess you do have a point

I’m probably just jealous that I don’t have an epic metal name

They should start a metal band, if they haven’t already

* * *

**Mikasa :) <3**

**Friday 8:15 PM**

I need some advice…

**Friday 8:57 PM**

Sorry, we were eating dinner. What’s up?

So you remember Jean?

The philosopher guy you had coffee with?

I went to a lecture with him yesterday

Yes

And I’ve been reading this philosophy book he lent me

And we’ve been texting a lot today

…And now that I’m typing all this out it looks silly

No it doesn’t

What’ve you been texting about?

Just TV shows and seasons and our friends’ names

Really minor stuff now that I think about it

But it’s really distracting

In a bad way or a good way?

Isn’t all distraction bad??

No

Is it making you unhappy?

Do you not want to talk to him?

No…

I like talking to him a lot, actually

But I just met him a week ago

I don’t think that matters so much

Just have fun with it

It doesn’t even have to go anywhere

Maybe you’ll keep talking and just become friends

That’d still be a win, right?

I guess…

And who knows, maybe this is going somewhere else

Which could be good

Just don’t overthink it, enjoy yourself!

It’s just…

I like him

He’s smart and has a lot of interesting ideas

And he’s kinda attractive…

But it feels too fast

But how will you know if you don’t keep talking to him?

It’s not like you have to decide what you are to each other soon

And you wouldn’t want to _not_ be attracted to him

That would be like Bill all over again

Let’s not talk about that…

Armin you deserve to have fun sometimes

As long as you’re not moving in with him in a couple days and he’s not pressuring you into doing anything you don’t want to, I think its fine

Thanks Mikasa :)

If he does try to push you into something you don’t want I’ll come over and break his arm

Aw, thanks! ^.^’

* * *

**Jean “Dirty Philosopher” Kirstein**

**Friday 7:45 PM**

They should start a metal band, if they haven’t already

**Friday 9:16 PM**

I think Ymir does play guitar

But I don’t know if Historia is musical at all

**Friday 9:30 PM**

She can play the triangle :P

Or the tambourine

Are there tambourines in metal music?

I’m not really that genre savvy but I’m betting someone’s tried it

Someone in Finland maybe

And a Viking themed metal group would make sense for Ymir

I’ll tell her you said so

Also tell her I expect royalties for coming up with the idea :P

 …Good luck getting her to comply with that

In addition to being the origin of the giants and the earth she also does roller derby

…on second thought maybe I won’t force the issue

But I’m a little offended that you doubt me :P

I do work out you know

…that’s probably the douchiest text I’ve ever sent

Please ignore that

I promise I’ll never do that again

**Friday 10:11 PM**

You’re cute :P

**Friday 11:05 PM**

Touch

Touche*

My phone doesn’t wanna speak French tonight apparently

**Friday 11:51 PM**

Does your phone usually speak French?

I found some metal music with tambourines!

And panpipes

<https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vHy81GG6k2o>

I kinda like it actually, until they start singing/growling

**Saturday 12:03 AM**

Wtf why is there a rooster crowing

I can’t tell if that’s tambourines or drums

It’s folk metal!

Very pastoral

(I thought they were tambourines but maybe I heard wrong)

Wow such folk

Much rooster

Amaze

This is to loud for my head rn

<https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6q1ghIds88s>

This one has an accordion

Maybe Historia could play the accordion?

“Blood in eye” huh?

Go to sleep blondie your drunk

I’m not though…

(Stop calling me blondie!)

Go to sleep blondie IM drunk

(make me)

(but actually Ill stop if you’re really don’t like it

Why don’t /you/ go to sleep then? Why should I got to sleep?

(I’m not super offended, only mildly offended)

I can live with mildly offended

It’s hard to sleep when you keep texting me loud metal music videos

They’re not loud if you don’t watch them??

Just don’t watch them? They’ll be there in the morning? :P

Yeah…

But fine I’ll stop, good night!

Night blondie

**Saturday 10:35 AM**

Do you like metal music?

**Saturday 12:09 PM**

Tbh not really

I went through a phase when I was a teenager

But like even then it wasn’t serious

Not a very committed relationship then?

Ha

No

It just…seemed like the thing to do? You know?

When you’re trying to be a rebel teen

And you have a chip on your shoulder

Listen to some music that’s actually just people screaming really loudly :P

My best friend is really into metal xD

*pulls out the shovel again*

I’m sure they have excellent taste

Fascinating genre, really

xD

He’s not a connoisseur like Ymir though

He just likes the energy

He also likes 80s power ballads

…

So what you’re saying is that he actually doesn’t have taste? :P

Well, if he’s having fun what’s the harm in that?

Have you ever taken a road trip with him as the DJ?

Yes…

And did you enjoy that?

 …no comment

HA

And did you tell him how you felt or did you just grin and bear it?

Well…we eventually took turns picking songs so it worked out

Honesty is the best policy my friend

How will he ever recover if he doesn’t realize that he has a problem?

I have one of those friends too and he’s slowly coming round

Yeah but there’s a difference between honest and being rude

**Saturday 2:36 PM**

Says the person who called philosophy a dirty word :P

**Saturday 4:00 PM**

Touché

My phone speaks French :P

Tres bien!

Do you speak French?

No :(

You?

I took Spanish in high school and college but I wouldn’t say I’m fluent

No just read it

One of my research languages

You have more than one?

Yup. French and German

Completely standard

Can’t speak em, can’t write em

Can read an article in them if I absolutely must

Impressive!

Not really

I want to take Spanish up again

I would love to travel more, get some more practice

But I also just want to travel in general

Soon I’ll get to, when I go into field work :)

**Saturday 5:19 PM**

What does that consist of?

(says the clueless humanities student)

**Saturday 6:41 PM**

So NASA/Scripps recently created our most detailed map of the ocean floor to date

They used geodesy, the science of measuring the earth’s gravity and shape

They get the data from satellites

It took 25 years of negotiation to get this info from the military/satellite operators!

So now we know the relative heights of landmasses under the surface of the sea

Higher gravity = mountains and ridges

Lower gravity = troughs

Here is the map they made: [http://earthobservatory.nasa.gov/IOTD/view.php?id=87189&src=iotdrss](http://earthobservatory.nasa.gov/IOTD/view.php?id=87189&src=iotdrss)

But there’s still a lot of fine detail work to be done!

And that’s where you come in?

Yes!

It’s called bathymetry

Gesundheit

:P

It’s sonar-based mapping

It’s part of a broader discipline called hydrography

Which is the study of the physical features of a body of water

I also analyze the sediment composition of the ocean floor

The research you do /after/ you’ve used the sonar to map things

So you both want to map the ocean floor and dissect it?

Dissect isn’t really the right term but yes :P

Well technically the earth is the body of Ymir sooo…

I rest my case

That’s…terrifying to think about :’(

Glad to be of help

Genuine question: what do you do with this data?

I’m not being facetious, I’m really asking

It’s hard to do tone via text :P

I understand!

Well, several things

First of all we publish it

Now that IS facetious :P

Kinda xD

But not really; other types of marine scientists need this info

Biologists and conservationists need it for understanding marine habitats

And data about the composition of the ocean floor is important for studying the earth’s history

Wow that’s really cool :)

Also sounds like you guys are the first step for getting any other ocean science done

Thanks!

And yes we are

**Saturday 8:09 PM**

So, I’ve been reading up on this sonar stuff

Because I was curious

And it looks like you have to be on a boat to use it

Which should have been obvious, in hindsight

But it’s led me to a very important question

Why am I going to an inland school?

…yeah

Reiss actually has a sister campus with marine tech and facilities in NJ

Top notch facilities

But I have to do most of my course work here

After I have my masters next year I’ll probably be spending more time out there

Plus Hange (my advisor) is pretty big in the field of sediment analysis

I came here to work with them

They go back and forth between the two campuses

I see

So once you’ve got your degree you’ll be spending a lot of time on a boat?

Yes!

**Saturday 11:12 PM**

Fuck land you’re on a boat motherfucker?

????

Fuck trees you climb buoys motherfucker?

Ok, fine, refuse to answer. I’ll just google it

OH

That song…

Hahaha

What was that about music taste again? :P

Ouch :(

Gonna need some ice for this 3rd degree burn blondie

Unfortunately neither of us is studying to become that type of doctor

Though I was a camp counselor for several summers so I do have basic medical training

If you ever did really get burned

That’s … really useful

You’re pretty cool, you know that?

Thanks! :)

**Sunday 12:14 AM**

Soooooooooooooo

If I ever needed a nurse I could call you?

Shit ok ignore me going to sleep sorry goodnight

**Sunday 9:46 AM**

…

Well I can assist in a medical emergency

But I’m not at the level of a nurse by any means

And I probably couldn’t help you with something like the flu that’s going around atm

**Sunday 11:54 AM**

Still way more than I could do for somebody :P

**Sunday 3:30 PM**

Do you like Indian food?

Yes, why?

Well we’re going to dinner tomorrow

(Unless something’s changed?)

So I thought we should pick a place

And a time

Oh yeah I knew that sorry

Just didn’t put 2 and 2 together for a second

Long day in the library

My brain is fried >>

I feel ya bro

How would you feel about India House in collegetown?

6:30?

Sounds good!

Yay :)

I finished Dok’s book this morning actually

…you are a fast reader

Thoughts?

Um that’s what the dinner is for

Oh right

I took some notes!

Not on your book though :P

Though I enjoyed getting to read your thoughts as well

It gave me the opportunity to prepare my responses!

Though I wish Dok had visited this week instead of last week

So many questions!

But you can help me with those :)

**Sunday 6:47 PM**

So honesty is my preferred policy

And I just want to make sure we’re on the same page

??

You know this is a date, right?

For some reason I thought we’d actually used that word

But I went over everything I could remember about our convos

And I guess we never specified

Sometimes I forget that you have to do it differently with guys

Can’t just assume

And it’s cool if you didn’t realize

And we can cancel or do it as book bros if you’d prefer

But I would like it to be a date

Ohh

Yes, I assumed that it was a date :)

I just like talking about books

And I would like to talk to you about books on our date

Phew!

Heart in my throat for a second there blondie

I like talking with you about books too lol

Among other things

:)

Sorry second guessed myself lol

You gotta be more careful with guys

They get mad sometimes, if you misjudge :P

And women don’t?

Nah

Well, not in the same way

Like they usually don’t get offended by the mere idea that you could be interested in them

Even if they don’t like you personally

**Sunday 8:05 PM**

So, can I ask what you identify as?

Sexuality wise

Bi

Is that a problem?

Of course not :)

As long as you’re attracted to men at least a little bit there’s no problem xD

Oh I am lol

Tbh I don’t really lean one way more than the other

Pretty 50-50 haha

Yourself?

I’m gay

Only men for me

Cool cool

And you’re out? I mean, I assume you are if you’re going out in public with guys

…I think that’s the weirdest possible way I could’ve phrased that

I’m pretty out, yes xD

My family and friends all know

My department all know

Or it’s not a secret, anyway

Yeah, same

Rosewall's pretty safe, I feel

Well, good chat nice to have cleared the air :P

See ya tomorrow, blondie!

Yeah :)

See you, Hipster Undercut

Brat :P

* * *

 

**Historia Reiss**

**Monday 4:45 PM**

Hey Armin! I posted in the FB event but I’m texting everyone on the list as well, just in case! It looks like both Ymir and I have come down with a pretty severe flu and we won’t be able to host Thanksgiving this Thursday like we planned. :( We’re so sorry for the last minute notice! Keep an eye on the group; somebody else might step up to host!

Oh no! I hope you feel better soon!!

Don’t worry about me, I’ll figure something out :)

Thanks Armin! Have a great break! <3

* * *

“So, to answer your question, I don’t think he takes his criticism of futurist ideologies far enough here,” Jean indicates the offending paragraph in _Transformative Posthumanism_ with a long finger. “This would be a good place to talk about how some of these philosophers misappropriate Donna Haraway’s notion of the cyborg. Or maybe not misappropriate . . . misuse? Hell, maybe even just misunderstand, in some cases.”

“Hmm . . . yeah, got it.”

They’re sitting at a small table by one of _India House_ ’s wide windows, Dok’s book laid out between them on the crisp white table cloth. They’re discussing it (or rather, Jean is methodically turning to each of Armin's sticky-noted pages and responding to whatever it is that Armin's written there) while they wait for their meal and nurse beers. Jean is speaking quite loudly to be heard over the chatter of the other patrons and the mellow sitar music that’s lilting through the restaurant. The softly lit dining room is surprisingly crowded for the Monday evening before Thanksgiving break and Armin wonders dully if that’s because most everyone else here are Reiss students celebrating getting to go home soon.

“Actually, I think he does make that critique in this later passage on page two hundred and twelve,” Jean continues, picking the book up and flipping to the page. “But it’s kinda shoved into the middle of a paragraph without much fanfare, or like, framing. It should be foregrounded more. Ah, here it is.” He holds _Transformative Posthumanism_ back out to Armin, who dutifully leans forward to inspect the text. Jean begins to read: “‘Haraway lays out the feminist possibilities of posthumanism in “A Cyborg Manifesto”. . .’”

Usually, Armin’s quite good at concentrating, particularly on important endeavors like discussing philosophy with an attractive guy and _particularly_ if he is supposed to be on a date with said guy. This evening, however, his mind keeps wandering away, back to that text message Historia had sent earlier in the afternoon and the anxiety it had ignited in him. No matter how hard he tries he just can't seem to get his mind off of that text, as it goes over the problem again and again without coming up with any real solutions. 

When he thinks about it, he'd really lucked out when it came to Thanksgiving these past couple of years. When he was at Berkeley he, Mikasa, and Eren would just drive downstate to the Yeager homestead for their usual Thanksgiving feast, but the holiday had proved trickier since moving to New York. Fortunately, in his first year at Reiss, his colleague Marco Bott--who had just naturally stepped up to be the social center of the Earth and Atmospheric Sciences department--had hosted a party for those who were trapped in town for the short but surprisingly important holiday. This year Marco was traveling to visit his girlfriend's family in Maine, but Ymir and Historia had valiantly stepped up to the plate. Now, however, they're out for the count, and with Reiner Braun (who could usually be counted on to spend breaks in town, since he couldn't exactly fly home to Hamburg for holidays his country didn't even have) also apparently planning a mysterious trip with a friend (whom he was being very coy about for some reason), Armin finds himself facing the real probability of spending Thanksgiving alone for the first time in his life. And Armin, who otherwise often enjoys being alone, thinks this prospect dismal, for a number of reasons. For one thing, even when he'd spent a friendly and pleasant evening at Marco's last year he'd still become incredibly homesick when he thought about Carla's cooking and his grandpa and the Yeagers sitting down to turkey dinner without him for the first time in ages. For another thing, there's a certain stigma around spending big cultural holidays like Thanksgiving on your own and Armin often already feels like a little bit of a recluse, even now that he's made it into a profession that encourages eschewing social norms to focus on one's research. All in all, he can't help but feel a little persecuted by the universe for throwing him a curve ball like this right in the middle of what seems to be a very good development in the form of Jean. 

 _What am I going to do? I don’t know anyone else in that Facebook event besides Historia and Ymir. I guess if someone in the group did offer to host in place of Historia and Ymir I_ could _go, but it’d be awkward to show up to a stranger’s house for a holiday all about celebrating friends and family. I don’t want to be a burden and I certainly don’t want anyone to pity me . . . but what am I supposed to do? If I spend Thanksgiving alone and someone finds out, I’ll look sad . . ._

“Earth to Armin.” Jean is waving his hand right in front of Armin’s eyes, drawing his attention back to the present. “Come in, space cadet.”

“Er, sorry!” Armin looks up to meet Jean’s worried gaze, heat rushing to his face at the fact that he’s been caught zoning out. _Dammit, I keep getting stuck in my head._ _He must think I’m so rude, especially after all that texting. Especially after_ I _kept insisting I wanted to talk to him about the book._ He struggles to remember where they are in the conversation, a conversation he’d really been looking forward to just earlier today. “He’s quoting Haraway to support his point, I’m following.”

There’s a brief, charged pause and then Jean snaps the book shut and places in the empty seat next to him. He crosses his arms, frowning thoughtfully over at Armin. Armin is slightly discomfited to discover just how _shrewd_ Jean can look when he narrows his sharp hazel eyes and furrows his thin brows. “Okay Blondie, what’s wrong?”

“Huh? Oh nothing, I’m just . . . tired. Long day.” It’s the overworked grad student’s go-to excuse and Jean's deepening frown indicates that he's not buying it. Armin shrinks a little under Jean’s scrutiny and turns to toy with the cloth napkin in his lap. He’s already decided he can’t tell Jean about his predicament. The possibility of asking Jean about his Thanksgiving plans had crossed Armin’s mind, but he’d dismissed it almost immediately. Besides making him appear slightly pathetic, it would surely be too much of an imposition on their burgeoning relationship. He doesn’t want Jean to think he’s needy or clingy, or that he in some way—God forbid— _created_ a situation whereby they could spend the holiday together. He’s mortified at the prospect of Jean even _thinking_ he would do something like that. No, better to keep his dilemma to himself and brainstorm a plan for the break on his own. If worst comes to worst he can always just ask to skype into the Yeager family’s dinner table . . .

“There you go again.” Jean’s words cut across Armin’s spiraling thoughts and he jumps, his cheeks reddening even further. He notes with some surprise that there’s not really any annoyance in Jean’s voice, just concern, and this realization both unnerves him and makes him feel worse. He’s not used to people reading him so easily and he feels a bit bad for worrying Jean. For his part, Jean takes one look at Armin’s guilty face and sighs, glancing away and reaching behind himself to rub the back of his neck. Armin knows now that this gesture indicates his discomfort. “Sorry, I don’t mean to quiz you. Your business is your business.”

And just like that Armin feels a wall going up between them. It's a disconcerting experience, because he's so used to being the one who pulls away from a relationship in order to protect himself from potential emotional pain. His brain whirs into action to assess what's happening, momentarily distracted from endlessly turning over The Thanksgiving Problem. From what he’s seen of Jean so far, he’s a very open person. He can be a little awkward or shy (particularly when trying to flirt), but he doesn’t seem like the type to keep secrets, even if speaking his mind is occasionally impolitic or comes at his own expense. In fact, Jean’s even explicitly told Armin about the value he places on honesty several times. For someone as frank as Jean, Armin's equivocation probably reads as distrust.  _Well, isn’t that true? You’re guarding yourself because you think he’ll laugh at you or reject you. You’re afraid of his judgment: you_ don’t _trust him._

Suddenly, a line from his text conversation with Mikasa on Friday night pops into his mind: _b_ _ut how will you know if you don’t keep talking to him?_   They'd been discussing Armin's worries about the speed at which his feelings for Jean were evolving and Mikasa had essentially pointed out (in her typical brusque way) that all relationships involve some element of personal risk. Armin doesn’t like to make himself vulnerable (a holdover from being teased a lot as a child), but he’s also starting to realize that if he ever wants something meaningful to develop between him and Jean he’s going to have to try really trusting him at some point. Thinking back over their conversations, Jean hasn’t actually given any signals that he’s a cruel person: occasionally grumpy and a little biting yes, but malicious or spiteful? Not so much. In fact, Jean has surprised him on multiple occasions: he apologized for breaking the copier, he’s at least acted like he’s genuinely interested in Armin’s life and studies, and he was very complimentary of Armin’s admittedly dorky glasses. Armin’s tallied all that up in Jean’s favor, but he’s still felt the need to be cautious about him—about their entire relationship, in fact. It could well be that Jean will react negatively to Armin’s worries about Thanksgiving, but he has to admit it’s not entirely fair to his date to not even give him a chance. He takes a deep breath.

“I . . . I’m sorry,” he begins. Jean looks up from picking at the label on his beer bottle, watching him closely. Armin stares down at his suddenly trembling hands, balling them up his lap to try to still them. For some reason, this moment feels bigger than just admitting he's at a loss for what to do about a holiday and feeling a bit homesick: he's going to show Jean something about how his mind works that he prefers to keep to himself and it's hitting him just how scary it is to do so. “I was really looking forward to seeing you today, but th-there _is_ something bothering me and I’m worried you’ll think it’s silly or that I’m a bit of a loser for having this, er, problem.”

He hears Jean inhale sharply, but he charges forward with his piece before the other man can speak and cause him to lose his nerve. “You know I’m from California, so it’s really hard for me to go home for little breaks like th-this. Some of my friends were going to throw their own party for those of us who had to stay here—a ‘Friendsgiving.’ But today they had to cancel it because they’ve both come down with the flu, and I don’t know anyone else who’s staying here for the break so I’m not quite sure what I’ll do. I kn-know it’s kinda ridiculous but it feels kinda l-lonely to be on my own and I didn’t want to talk about it because I was worried you would think . . . would think . . ." He gulps. _Here goes nothing._ “That you would think I was pathetic or that I didn’t have any friends.”

Armin regrets his speech almost as soon as it’s out of him. He’s laid out several of his biggest insecurities on the table all at once, making him feel incredibly exposed; and he's done it on only their second date as well! Jean’s going to think he’s overemotional and oversensitive, that he’s weak and in constant need of validation. _It's just one lousy little Thanksgiving and you're making it into such a big deal. And everything was going so well until now . . ._  How had he managed to talk himself into this? Of all of the most useless, self-destructive ideas he’s ever had . . .

“Armin.” He forces himself to look up when Jean says his name. Jean’s gaze is steady, his expression completely serious. “Would you like to come to Southwall with me for Thanksgiving?”

Another wave of self-disgust washes over Armin and he glances away, tugging at a loose thread in the table cloth. “I’m not asking you to take pity on me.” Even as the words tumble out Armin winces at how childish they sound.

“Jesus Christ, Armin!” Jean cries in pained exasperation. His suddenly raised voice draws some titters and stares from other nearby tables. He grimaces at himself and then continues in a quieter but equally urgent tone. “Look, I’m not taking pity on you; I _like_ you. There’s a reason I keep coming up with excuses to see you, starting with that time I bought you coffee two weeks ago. If I ask you home for Thanksgiving it’s because I want to spend more time with you, because you’re a goddamn interesting, intelligent, and funny person, and for no other reason.” Having said his bit, he leans back in his chair with a huff, his face flushed. Armin can only gape at him.

It’s at this moment that the server appears to place a steaming plate in front of each of them. The gangly teenager looks curiously between an obviously shocked Armin and a brooding Jean, the latter of whom manages to mumble a word of thanks for the food. Armin can’t seem to formulate speech yet. He’s not quite sure what he expected to happen when he opened up to Jean, but it certainly wasn’t _that_. Jean’s definitely upset, but he can’t really tell yet with whom or with what. 

The server bustles away, sneaking one last inquisitive glance back at the pair. Armin is dimly aware that a public place was probably not the best setting for this kind of exchange, but there’s no way he can take it back now. Jean uses his fork to sullenly spear a piece of lamb in his curry but instead of bringing it up to his mouth he points it at Armin. “And another thing,” he continues, as if there had been no interruption in their conversation. “Don’t put words in my mouth like ‘loser’ or ‘pathetic’ or ‘pity.’ I’m just getting to know you, but no way in hell do I think any of those terms apply to you. It kinda hurts to hear you talk about yourself that way, and I _really_ don’t like whoever or whatever it was that put those ideas in your head.” And with that he tucks into his food.

It dawns on Armin then. Jean’s not angry _at_ him; he’s angry _for_ him.

The realization makes Armin’s throat tighten with an emotion which he can’t quite name. He still doesn’t trust himself to speak so he follows Jean’s example and takes a bite of his food, savoring the distracting burn of the spicy vindaloo he’s ordered. 

After a few minutes of eating in stiff silence, Jean sets down his fork again and clears his throat. His cheeks are still pink, but his eyes have softened. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t . . . I shouldn’t’ve made a scene. It's not . . . you're not . . . _I'm_ not . . . _you_ did nothing wrong. Not that you need me to say that . . .” He trails off and turns back to his curry. He then mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like, "Keep digging that hole, Jean-boy."

Armin just nods, still processing. There’s another interlude of quiet eating before he finally hits on at least part of what he wants to say to the other man. He sets down his fork and fixes his dinner companion with a solemn stare. “Jean, I would like to spend Thanksgiving with you, if your offer still stands.”

Jean's head jerks up, his expression changing from surprise to hopeful relief in rapid succession. He smiles tentatively over at Armin. “Of course it does. We'd be happy to have you. Ma loves guests.”

“Thank you,” Armin says sincerely, mirroring Jean's shy smile. “I’m really looking forward to meeting your family.” 

Jean lets out a laugh. It’s still a little nervous but the sound lifts Armin’s spirits nevertheless. “They’re fun. This may surprise you, but they’re even more of a handful than I am.”

The last remnants of the earlier tension are finally dissipating and Armin turns some of his attention back to his vindaloo as they naturally move onto a new topic. “How many of you are there?”

“Well, in my house it’s just me and my mom. My dad’s never been in the picture. It’s not a sob story,” he adds quickly, when Armin creases his brow in sympathy. “Ma got pregnant when she was a teenager and decided she could do it all on her own, simple as that.” There’s a real fondness in Jean’s voice when he speaks of his mother which puts Armin in mind of his companion's Facebook profile picture of the two of them beaming, obviously enjoying each other's company. “Not that she didn’t have help. That’s where my other family comes in.”

“Your other family?” Armin asks, curiosity piqued.

Jean’s smile turns into a giant grin that lights up his whole face. “Our neighbors, the Springers. There’s seven kids in all and they’re all hellions, but Connie’s the one I’m closest to since we're the same age. We’re practically brothers, we’ve been together that long. Even went to the same undergrad. I was his best man when he married Sasha this past summer. She’s great too.” He leans forward and lowers his voice conspiratorially. “And she’s training to be a professional chef, so if you weren’t already sold on coming out for a visit, just know that the food will be top-notch.”

“I can’t cook at all,” Armin confesses sheepishly. “I’ll bring some wine though. It probably won't be as nice anything in Smith's stash though.”

Jean laughs and waves him off with an airy hand. “You can help me make something. Or, better yet, maybe you can get Sash to give you lesson.”

“That would be nice,” Armin says, scooping up another bite of the food he’s currently enjoying. _I wonder if Sasha knows any Indian recipes._ “So what does Connie do?”

“He’s a physical therapist. Just opened his own practice in Southwall. It sounds like he’s doing pretty well for himself. I’m really happy for him, it took a lot to get the whole thing started.” Jean practically glows with pride.

“Your family sounds wonderful.” Hearing Jean talk like this does cause another twinge of homesickness, but it's not as bad as it was at the beginning of the dinner for some reason. He's starting to feel a little freer and muses with some astonishment that maybe getting his anxiety off of his chest had done him some good. He knows that it'll eventually come back, but there's some relief that Jean not only knows about its existence now but also doesn't seem to view it as a personal failing on Armin's part, even if he doesn't completely understand it.

“Well _I_ love ‘em,” Jean chuckles. He shoots Armin a considering look. “Most people seem to think our set-up’s a little odd though.”

Armin shakes his head. “Not me, but I have a bit of an unconventional family as well. I was raised by my grandpa because my parents died when I was young.” Jean frowns again and Armin smiles to prove he's okay. “I was _very_ young, I don’t even really remember anything about them. Anyway, I met Eren Yeager when I was in elementary school and we just sort of become inseparable. Then, the summer before we started middle school his parents had to take in their goddaughter, Mikasa, when her folks died.” Jean’s looking really concerned now and Armin understands why—there are too many dead parents in his backstory. Armin decides to hold off on elaborating on how exactly Mikasa’s parents had passed; he doesn’t want to scare Jean too much at the moment. “Long story short, we’re basically siblings. Well, except for Eren and Mikasa; they’re married now.”

“Wow, that’s . . . very Victorian,” Jean mumbles through his last bite of curry.

Armin’s splutters out a surprised laugh and Jean drops his head into one of his hands. “Ugh, that was a really tactless thing to say, sorry.” He peeks across at Armin through his fingers, his eyes pleading for forgiveness.

“No worries! I’ve often thought that myself. I was actually about to say that you and I are kindred spirits, at least when it comes to our family lives.” 

“Did you just call me the Diana Barry to your Anne Shirley?” Jean quirks an eyebrow at him, lips twitching.

Armin smirks, privately pleased that Jean got his reference to an early twentieth-century classic. _I probably shouldn't be surprised by this point, actually._ “Maybe.”

Jean rolls his eyes in a mock tiff. “Uh, excuse me: I am totally Gilbert Blythe . . . handsome, charismatic, and incredibly intelligent. Also, you yelled at me when we first met _and_ I annoy you with hair-based nicknames. I think the parallels are _pret-_ ty clear . . .,” he trials off when Armin bursts into giggles. “What? You don’t see it?” he teases, wearing a self-deprecating grin.

“No, I see it,” Armin assures him, his blush returning to his cheeks. Jean ducks his head in embarrassment but Armin can see that the corners of his mouth are ticked up in pleased smile.

They chat a bit more about Victorian novels and then call for the check. Jean tries to take care of it all but Armin insists they split it. Armin notes with some approval that Jean concedes without much fuss: if he does have a point of chivalrous pride it’s clearly not something that’s unduly important to his sense of masculinity or self- worth. After they leave the restaurant they pick their way back through dark and snowy streets of Rosewall to Armin’s bus stop, still chatting about their favorite books from their respective undergrad English lit surveys (they agree that post-colonial literature is by far-and-away the most interesting, but Jean also turns out to be surprisingly fond of the Romantic poets and is a little perturbed by Armin’s preference for British modernism). 

When they reach the collegetown bus shelter, Jean makes to keep heading downtown to his apartment, but turns around after only a few steps. “Oh, I almost forgot. There’s, uh, something you should know, just to, you know, clarify. We have a spare room in my house. Well, it’s actually just my mom’s office that just happens to contain a sleeper sofa, but, you know—that counts.” He rattles off this information quickly, breath puffing out to create clouds in the frigid winter air. Armin blinks up at him and feels the tips of his ears heating up when decodes what Jean is attempting to communicate.

 _We won’t be sharing a room. No pressure, no expectations._ Armin feels a little silly that it hadn’t occurred to him to ask about their sleeping arrangements. He’d apparently just assumed that they would be staying in separate rooms. His stomach does a somersault when discovers he'd already trusted Jean, at least when it came to those kinds of physical boundaries. Jean’s words also remind him of the full potential a romantic relationship affords and he feels himself shivering from something other than the cold. He tries to push those surprisingly insistent thoughts aside as he smiles back at Jean. “That’s great!” he exclaims, perhaps a little too enthusiastically. Armin cringes internally. He certainly doesn’t want Jean to think he’s uninterested in a sexual relationship, even if it’s not on the table just yet. For his part, Jean doesn’t seem bothered by his tone and just nods.

“Alright then, I’ll text you with the details tomorrow.” He lifts his arm like he's going to pat Armin's shoulder but changes it into a self-conscious little wave partway through the motion.

As he starts to walk off again Armin finds himself calling him back one last time. “Wait!”

Jean turns on his heel, one eyebrow cocked in question. Armin hesitates for just a second before making his request. “Can I . . . can I hug you?”

Jean’s expression changes rapidly from surprise to something so tender it makes Armin’s knees suddenly feel very wobbly. “Anytime, Blondie.”

Armin steps forward to wrap his arms around Jean’s strong shoulders and tuck his face in the other man’s scarf. He smells like detergent, soap, and something else Armin can’t quite place; something that draws a small sigh out of him. Jean returns the embrace, hands awkwardly patting Armin on the back a few times. Jean’s body is so warm. Armin didn’t realize how much he was craving another human’s touch until just now and has to resist the urge to lean into the hug a little more. _Not just yet; maybe soon though._ This close, Armin finally finds the rest of the words he wanted to say to Jean back in the restaurant and he stands on his tip-toes to whisper them in his ear: “I like you too, Jean Kirstein.”

Jean’s only response is to squeeze him a little closer for half a second before letting go.

Later, sitting on the bus back to the east side of town, Armin opens a new text conversation with Mikasa and Eren.

_So . . . don’t freak out about what I’m about to tell you . . ._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!!!
> 
> [3/4/17: Edited to frame the moment of anxiety a bit better]
> 
> [3/25/17: Mmmm I'm developing some mixed feelings about this chapter; on the one hand, built on some of my personal struggles with anxiety/things people I care about have told me. On the other hand, a bit abrupt and maybe not quite right for these characters or this relationship. I go back and forth. I think this would've looked a bit different, if I'd be editing it with the whole work in front of me.]
> 
> Some people juggle geese: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0Ii4KTwnN1U
> 
> My first note about this chapter is, as always: please correct me if I've gotten something wrong about either philosophy or marine geology. I'm really just winging it here, and I'm not doing the most thorough research (although I do try, I promise) so feel free to call me out on that if you see something wrong xD.
> 
> My second note is that this chapter didn't get as far chronologically as I expected. The text portions ended up being more detailed than I originally planned. I wanted to showcase how much Armin and Jean like just chatting, to give a sense of the friendship that's grounding their developing romantic feelings. If you've made it this far, you may have noticed I default to dialogue, and our most modern form of communication is texting so it seemed silly not to make use of it. I really felt like their relationship needed to develop just a teensy bit more before I could send them off on a holiday together. Plus I wanted to get some Mikasa in as well. It also a good way to finish up some exposition (like why Armin is so far inland if he's studying to be a marine geologist . . .) xD. I tried to keep their voices unique and in character, but it was a bit of a struggle. As mentioned above, let me know if the format is just too difficult to read and I'll find a way to clarify it. 
> 
> As for the scene in the restaurant I will come clean and admit I rewrote it five times and each time it looked wildly different. What's sitting before you now is definitely not what was in the outline but it felt right as I was writing it. I liked this version the best because it kind of got at something that was maybe "in the way" of Armin and Jean's relationship. My reading of their canon relationship has always been that Jean notices Armin first but Armin takes a while to open up someone who's not Eren or Mikasa (although we do see him having casual friendships with Marco and Reiner) and I tried to put that in an AU. I also tried to incorporate Armin's worries about being a burden: Armin always seems like the type of person who would take a lot on himself. I admit I'm worried that it feels like Armin's anxiety suddenly exploded but I've tried to set it up in previous chapters. I've never been in quite Armin's situation here, but Thanksgiving is a weirdly timed/stressful holiday as an adult, I've found--especially if you're an adult with low funds xD And these stresses don't always bring out the best in us . . . Hopefully Jean's reaction makes sense too and doesn't feel . . . wrong, for lack of a better word. Gah. Writing. It's hard xD
> 
> I also appreciate all comments and kudos!! :)


	5. An Announcement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armin meets Jean's mother and his childhood friends, Connie and Sasha. Armin can't resist a little snooping. Jean's frankness may get him into a bit of trouble . . .

“Ta-daa!” Jean spreads his arms wide to indicate the small one-story ranch-style house in front of him. “The Kirstein homestead! It’s not much of a looker, I know.”

Armin shrugs his backpack into a more secure position on his shoulder and considers Jean’s childhood home. It’s unassuming, certainly, with beige siding and white shutters, but the bright blue door adds a touch of flare and the small yard contains a gnarled tree that looks like it would be excellent for climbing. He pictures a young Jean scrambling up its branches and smiles to himself. The small collection of eclectic lawn ornaments near the door also adds to the house’s character; they’re partially obscured by a dusting of snow, but Armin thinks he can make out the shapes of a cartoon skunk and a Halloween witch who’s long overstayed her holiday. That would bother Carla, he muses: she keeps a very strict schedule for seasonal decorations.

Armin can feel Jean watching him, trying to gauge his reaction, so he turns his smile on the other man. “I like it!” he assures Jean. “It’s . . .” he tries to think of a way to describe the vibe he’s getting that won’t sound unintentionally patronizing. Not “cute” but maybe . . . “It’s homey.”

“Well, it _is_ a home,” Jean smirks. 

Armin feels a little heat rising to his face and rushes to find something specific to compliment so Jean won’t think he’s actually judging the house. His eyes land on the lawn ornaments and he blurts, “I like the skunk.” Oh no, not _that_! That just made it sound like he was being sarcastic! He opens his mouth again, desperately trying to bail out this sinking ship of a conversation. “I really like skunks in general actually. They were one of my favorite land mammals when I was a kid. I always wanted a spotted skunk, specifically, as a pet and I was so disappointed when Grandpa informed me keeping skunks as pets is actually illegal in California so I—,” As he talks Jean’s eyebrows start going up and his grin slowly gets wider: he’s enjoying this. Armin knows he’s blushing furiously but now that he’s started with the word-vomit he really can’t stop. “—decided that I would just train it really well and then the ASPCA would see I was really a good skunk handler and let me keep it, but I realize now that keeping a skunk as a pet would probably be inhumane so . . . I don’t want one . . . anymore . . .” he trails off and looks away from Jean, thoroughly abashed.

He yelps in surprise when Jean reaches over to ruffle his hair, loosening his ponytail and causing some blond strands to fall into his face. “Dude, skunks are gross,” Jean pronounces like he’s imparting the wisdom of the ages. “Have you ever smelled one? Like pot smoke but ten times worse.”

Armin wrinkles his nose at the thought, but still feels pressed to defend his childhood preferences. “Okay, yes, _but_ skunks are also pretty clean animals and they only spray when threatened. _And_ they’re reluctant to spray because they can only carry so much of it, so they’ll only use it when there’s no other option. Plus, they can be litter trained.”

“Wow, you really thought this whole skunk-pet thing through, didn’t you, Blondie?” When Armin crosses his arms defensively over his chest, Jean gently nudges him with his shoulder. “Hey, I’m sorry. It was a compliment. I wanted a pet gator as a kid and I didn’t put nearly as much effort into looking up how to do it, ‘cause I was super lazy like that.”

“Well, alligators can’t really be domesticated so that probably wouldn’t have worked out for you anyway,” Armin points out, but he uncrosses his arms and meets Jean’s amused eyes again.

Jean barks out a laugh and musses Armin’s hair a second time. “ _Such_ sass! Oi!” he cries when Armin reaches over to yank off his beanie in revenge, revealing his wild hat hair. Armin darts back as Jean starts menacingly in his direction but a loud voice cuts across the yard before their play-fight can escalate any further. “Welcome home, Jeanie!”

They both pivot simultaneously to see Jean’s mother—Gretchen Kirstein, Armin remembers from his episode of cyber-stalking—walking down the front steps towards them, bundled up in a bright pink parka. Now that he’s meeting her in person he’s even more startled by the resemblance between mother and child; it’s really almost as uncanny as how similar Eren looks to Carla. Gretchen Kirstein is a little shorter and rounder than her son, but she has the same beady hazel eyes, high cheekbones, and dark thin brows. Her hair, which she’s pulled away from her face in a neat bun, is an identical mousy brown to her son’s, although it’s streaked with gray here and there. She’s smiling at them as she strides over, and Armin can see Jean’s own wry grin in her expression. “I like what you’ve done with your hair, Jeanie-boy,” she teases, and Armin detects a hint of nasally Bostonian drawl in her voice.

“Hey, Ma.” Jean chuckles and envelops his mother in a bear hug. She returns it for a few moments and then puts her hands on his shoulders to push him away and look him over. Armin marvels that it’s the exact same shrewd look that Jean wears when he’s assessing something. _I wonder if Grandpa and I share anything like that? Or if my parents and I would have shared anything like that . . ._

Gretchen Kirstein purses her lips in disapproval as she finishes surveying her son. “You’re like a twig! Have you been eating? I know your stipend’s not much but—”

Jean rolls his eyes and takes a step back, pulling out of her grasp. “Yes, Ma. Jesus!”

Having given her verdict to her son, Jean’s mom turns her attention to Armin, who suddenly feels pinned in place under her gaze. “And you must be Armin! Welcome! I’m Gretchen!” she says, beaming and holding out a gloved hand for him to shake. He takes it and she pumps his arm heartily up and down, examining him with keen interest. “Oh God, you’re like a doll! Look at those baby blues!” she exclaims. Armin blinks down at her, a little startled. Now he knows where Jean gets some of his frankness as well.

“Th-thank you.”

“Sorry, I know it’s rude to stare. It’s just that Jean’s never brought a man home before, so I’ve never known his type and you’re not exactly what I expected, given his taste in women –”

“Oh-kay, that’s _enough_ , Ma; you’ll shake his arm off his body if you’re not careful,” Jean intervenes, tugging Armin’s hand free from his mother’s firm grip.  His cheeks are pink and he’s not quite meeting Armin’s eyes. “How about we go inside now so Armin can put his stuff down, yeah?”

“Oh, of course, of course. C’mon in!” Gretchen leads the way up the stairs into the house, peppering her son with questions about the four hour drive from Rosewall—the weather conditions, the traffic, which route he took. Armin’s head is still reeling from his first encounter with Jean’s mom. Talking with Jean during the trip had temporarily distracted him from his worries about what kind of impression he would make on Gretchen Kirstein, but he feels them coming back in full force now. It _seems_ like they’re starting off on the right foot, assuming that looking “like a doll” is a positive quality from her perspective. _He’s_ less than enthused by that type of compliment and also a bit concerned about her comment that he somehow doesn’t align with her perception of Jean’s tastes . . . what was that supposed to mean? He tries to suppress these thoughts as he steps into the Kirsteins’ home and takes a look around.

The interior, like the exterior, is cozy, albeit a little dated by its popcorn ceilings, laminated flooring, and dark wooden accents. The entryway opens immediately up into a small living room which is made even smaller by the large plaid couch and three flatpack bookshelves the Kirsteins have managed to pack into the space. The floor is clear but every other surface seems to be loaded with organized clutter: kitschy décor and stacks of paperback books fight for space on the sagging shelves, there’s a small TV perched precariously atop one of the bookcases, and the mantel over the brick fireplace is crowded with family photos in mismatched frames. It’s a far cry from his Grandpa’s Spartan condo or Carla and Grisha’s artfully minimalist taste, but he likes it. For some reason the barely controlled chaos puts him in mind of Jean’s erratic scribbling in _Transformative Posthumanism._

“Welcome to our home, Armin,” Gretchen says graciously as she peels off her coat and hangs it on a peg near the door. Armin and Jean follow suit, tugging off their snow boots as well.

“Thank you for having me, Gretchen.” Armin flashes her a sincere smile.

Jean’s mom waves him off and starts making her way to the kitchen. “Of course, of course. I’m going to start a pot of coffee; would you boys like some?”

“Yes, please,” they chorus after her, and then Jean turns to Armin.

“Here, Armin, lemme show you the office so you can put your stuff down.” Jean ushers him towards a narrow hallway leading off the main area and into a room on the immediate right, closing the door behind them. It’s a small space with a tiny wooden desk obscured by baskets of sewing supplies and a sofa bed that’s already made up with a colorful quilt.

Armin drops his backpack on the bed and shoots Jean a tentative smile. “It’s nice. The room, I mean. And your mom! She’s nice too.”

Jean rubs the back of his neck in embarrassment. “Yeah, she is but she gets . . . overexcited sometimes. Sorry I didn’t really warn you about that.” He steps away from the door and looks at Armin sheepishly. “I should’ve known she’d pounce on you like that. . .”

Armin attempts a carefree shrug. “No worries, I don’t mind.” It’s mostly true. Gretchen’s heart seems to be in the right place, at least. Jean had asked him what they should tell his mom and the rest of Jean’s friends and family about their developing relationship and Armin had decided to try out some more patented Kirstein honesty, since Jean was already out to all of them anyway. However, he’s never met a boyfriend’s family before, much less been out to them, and he does feel a little exposed. Plus, he’s not even sure what he and Jean are, yet. Their relationship is too new to be easily labeled.

Jean takes a couple more hesitant steps towards him, his brow furrowed with concern. “You sure? You looked a little uncomfortable. I can talk to her about that doll stuff, if you’d like. I think she _means_ it as a compliment, but sometimes she just says things without thinking—shocker, I know.” A self-deprecating grin slides across his face.

“It’s not my _favorite_ compliment, but I’m used to it,” Armin admits, once again caught off guard by how easily Jean seems to be able to read him. Armin’s become a lot more comfortable with his looks than he was in high school (when his gym teacher regularly reminded him he was “built like a daffodil”), but sometimes being called “pretty” can still get under his skin. It’s not that he necessarily wants to be He-Man or anything, but it does irk him when people make assumptions about his personality and his preferences based purely on his slightly androgynous appearance. But he’s made peace with it as the price he pays for having grown out his hair to look a little older—when he has short hair he looks particularly childlike, like some Baroque painting of a cherub.

“Well, what _is_ your favorite type of compliment? I-Inquiring minds want to know.” Jean’s pretty close now, Armin realizes. Close enough that Armin can feel the warmth of his body even though they’re not quite touching. His treacherous heart speeds up as Jean shyly reaches out a hand to smooth down his hair where he’d it messed up during their earlier rough-housing. Even such a light touch causes Armin’s breath to hitch in his throat.

Before Armin can marshal his scrambling thoughts to garble out some kind of reply, Gretchen calls out to them from down hall, “Coffee’s done!”

Jean and Armin jump apart, startled, their cheeks identical shades of dark pink.

“Jean? Armin?”

“Yeah, Ma! We got it, we got it!” Jean yells back, his voice cracking just a little bit. “Well, er, better get going then.” He chuckles self-consciously and strides over to the door a little too quickly.

Armin pulls a bottle of wine out of his bag (a hostess gift for Gretchen) and follows him, his heart still racing with a mixture of nerves and giddiness he hasn’t felt for a while. He knows he’s grinning like a lovesick schoolboy. _We’re both such dorks. Such, such dorks. You’re an adult! How can you get so worked up over something so small? Dork._ He manages to tame his face into a more neutral expression as he steps into the kitchen. Gretchen accepts the wine with cries of “Thank you!” and “How nice!” and hands him a cup of coffee in return.

They’re not at the table long before Gretchen starts in on Armin, her beady eyes bright with curiosity. “So, you’re an astrophysicist?”

It’s such a non sequitur that Armin can only gape at her in confusion. Jean snorts into his coffee and Armin looks over to him for help. He points at Armin’s sweatshirt. Armin glances down and realizes the missing connection: he’d forgotten he’d pulled on his NASA hoodie this morning.

“Oh, no. I’m a marine geologist actually. I just like government sponsored science programs. I mean, I _could_ work for NASA if I wanted to, since they always need geologists to help analyze their rover data, but that’s a little outside my field.”

“Armin wants to map the ocean floor with funky sonar technology,” Jean explains.

“Impressive. Probably much more useful than what Jean-boy’s studying.” Jean sticks his tongue out at her but doesn’t seem really offended. “Can you explain how that works for the non-genius in the room, Armin?”

And so Armin starts walking her through the kind of work he does, his nervousness easing the more he talks. Gretchen, like her son, is a good listener: she nods in all the right places and asks thoughtful questions, but also gets in a playful quip or two. He gets the sense that she’s genuinely curious about his work and not just trying to make small talk, which makes him relax even further. Jean eyes dart between the two of them, a smug smile on his lips. Eventually the conversation turns from Armin’s area of study to the details of his program—how long he’s been at Reiss, what kind of work he does in the lab, if he’s enjoys TAing. Jean butts in here to gripe about his own freshmen, regaling Armin and Gretchen with stories of their classroom antics. Gretchen rolls her eyes at her son and shoots a conspiratorial wink over at Armin, who grins back timidly. Doll-like or not, it seems like he’s making a good first impression after all.

As the conversation turns to Gretchen work (she’s the area manager for a chain of florists and greenhouses, Armin learns), Jean’s phone chirps. He fishes it out of his pocket, reads the message, and breaks into a grin.

“Hey, Armin, you feeling up to going out tonight? Connie’s looking to hit the bars after work.”

 _Round two of meeting the family begins_. “Yeah, sounds good.” He hopes his voice doesn’t reveal anything of his returning nerviness.

“You two gonna eat here or while you’re out?” Gretchen asks, gathering up their empty mugs and heading towards the kitchen.

“Probably out, if that’s okay. Connie says he’ll swing by to get us when he clocks out.”

“Sure, just abandon your old woman to play with your friends, I understand.”  Gretchen huffs as she leans against the counter, but her eyes are crinkled with laughter. Jean goes over to her and kisses her on the cheek.

“Oh fine, I get it. But hey, Jeanie?” She grabs his sleeve as he’s turning away. “Can you take a quick look at my car before you go? It’s been having trouble starting up a few times now and I’m a bit worried. Was hoping to have it working properly by Black Friday.”

Jean’s brow furrows. “Again?”

Gretchen’s expression is sheepish. “Still,” she admits and Jean’s frown deepens.

“Ma, you told me about that weeks ago. I thought you were gonna get Sunny to check it out.”

She turns away from him to begin rinsing out the mugs in the sink. When she speaks it’s in a low voice which makes Armin think he’s not really supposed to be listening to this conversation. He quickly pulls out his phone and tries to look distracted, but he really can’t help but overhear. “Well, it was only a _few_ times. I didn’t want to bother her if it was no big deal. She’s working two jobs, you know; and she’s got that new baby to take care of. I just didn’t want to take advantage of her kindness . . .”

“She’s family, Ma.” Jean’s not as good as his mother at toning down his volume. “She’d want you to be safe.”

“Well, you’re here now. Why don’t you just do it?” Gretchen’s voice has taken on a stubborn edge.

Jean lets out an exasperated sigh. “Fine, fine. Hey Armin.” Armin looks up at the sound of his name and meets Jeans eyes across the table. “I’m gonna be in the garage for a bit.” He points an admonishing finger at his mother. “Don’t subject him to the Spanish Inquisition while I’m out.”

“Actually, if Armin doesn’t mind, could I borrow your car to make a quick trip to the store? I tried to get everything earlier in the week, but there’s a few things I’ve forgotten.”

“I don’t mind,” Armin says quickly, still feeling slightly awkward about the conversation he’s just witnessed. Gretchen smiles at him.

“Anything in particular you like for breakfast? Or special requests?” She asks him as Jean goes to get their coats.

“I’m not picky,” Armin responds politely. “I’ll eat whatever you usually eat, but thank you!”

“Get pancake mix,” Jean says, fishing his keys out of his coat pocket and handing them to his mother. “And chocolate chips.”

She salutes him and then bustles out the front door with a wave to Armin. “Careful on the roads!” Jean calls after her. “People drive like igits this time of year!” He sighs again as the door slams shut and then starts pulling on his own jacket.

“Sorry about this, but I’d really better go check out her car. I can’t believe she’s actually been driving the fucking thing like this for a month,” he grumbles as he runs a hand through his hair.

Armin shrugs and smiles reassuringly. “I don’t mind,” he repeats.

“Hopefully this won’t take long. Feel free to make yourself at home.” Jean exits the house through a door at the far end of the kitchen and suddenly Armin’s alone in his almost-boyfriend’s childhood home.

He glances down at his phone again. It’s 3:54. He probably has at least two hours until Connie shows up to take them out. He doesn’t know how long Jean will be in the garage or Gretchen will be at the store. Does Jean want company? He didn’t ask for it, and Armin’s never been good with cars, anyway; he _can_ drive, but he always carpooled with Eren and Mikasa as a teenager and college student so he’s never really had to take care of a vehicle on his own. Maybe he should just use this time alone to recharge his introvert energy bar and have a look around.

_Have a look around? You mean snoop, don’t you? Just don’t open any closed doors or drawers, Sherlock._

Armin starts in the living room, where he returns to the shelves and the mantle. He’s a firm believer in scoping out another person’s book collection to get a sense of their personality. What he can glean from the Kirsteins’ shelves is that they read pretty much anything they can get their hands on—in fact, given the way the shelves are packed to their maximum capacity, the Kirsteins seem to be book hoarders. There’s a sizeable number of Dover Thrift Editions that include everything from _Sir Gawain and the Green Knight_ to _Middlemarch_ , but these are all mixed in with mass market paperback thrillers and romance novels with spines so broken Armin can barely make out the titles. He also sees the odd self-help or reference book here or there, some children’s classics like _Harry Potter_ and _A Wrinkle in Time_ , and pulp science-fiction titles with cheap plastic dustjackets. A lot of the spines sport stickers which read “Southwall Used Books” or “Rose County Library Sale.” Ah yes, the library sale: both the bane and blessing of a bibliophile’s existence. Armin himself has gone to many with the intention to “just browse” only to come back with a large brown bag full of junk novels and slightly dated popular science books.

There’s a smaller collection of DVDs piled up on the bottom of one of the shelves and it reflects a similarly wide-ranging taste: everything from Disney classics to Marvel movies to the _The Best of Jean Luc Picard_. Armin smirks as he wonders who the _Star Trek_ fan is: Gretchen, Jean, or both? Overall he decides that he approves of the Kirsteins’ media consumption habits and turns his attention to the family photos above the mantle.

Unlike the shelves, there seems to be an organizational principle to the pictures: they’re ordered by age, starting with Jean as a baby on the far left of the mantle and ending with him shaking some dean’s hand at his college graduation on the right. Child Jean is awkward and gangly, but ultimately endearing, Armin concludes, with his tufty ashy-blond hair and wide toothy grin. The earliest photos also showcase a younger Gretchen holding her son, and the full force of Jean’s description of his family hits Armin then: Gretchen is _very_ young in some of these pictures, probably only seventeen or eighteen. He can’t even begin to imagine what it must have been like for her, barely old enough to be classified an adult and already taking on the responsibility of parenthood. Heck, he can barely imagine becoming a parent at his own age, and he’s at least five years older than she was then. But on the whole, the pictures seem to reveal a happy childhood. There are several of Jean and his young friends trick-or-treating or celebrating birthdays and Gretchen, while she often appears tired in these photos, is always beaming with love.

He’s about to turn back to the books to pick out something to read for a while when a small laminated card on sitting on the mantle catches his eye. He picks up, realizes what it is, bites his lip in hesitation, and then decides that Jean will want to know. So he grabs his coat and heads out to the garage.

Jean’s got the hood of his mother’s silver sedan propped open and is cursing under his breath as he fiddles with something. He’s taken off his coat and there are grease stains all over his green Reiss University sweatshirt. He looks up when Armin shuts the door behind him and his scowl turns into a smirk. “Come to admire the view, Blondie?”

Armin flushes but smiles cheekily back. “Maybe.”

“Yeah, I always say there’s nothing handsomer than a sweaty man covered in engine grease,” Jean jokes, underscoring his point by showing Armin his crusty gloves. “Looks like it’s the battery. There’s a lot of sulfate build up, so I’m cleaning it up and tightening up the terminals, but it could need to be replaced.”

“I didn’t know you could fix cars,” Armin admits, peering at the car engine with interest.

“Yup, machines just talk to me.”

Armin can’t help but raise his eyebrows. “Except copy machines.”

“Oi,” Jean places a gloved hand to his heart in mock hurt. “I would have figured it out eventually. I have a mechanic’s intuition.”

Armin’s eyebrows climb even further up his forehead.

“Brat,” Jean chides, turning back to the car to hide his rising blush.

“So, uh,” Armin begins tentatively as Jean gets back to work. “You were worried about your mother using the car while it was like this?”

“Damn straight,” Jean grunts, turning something (perhaps a “terminal”?) with a wrench. “Especially now that I’ve seen it, I’m surprised it was running at all.”

Armin nods. “Well, I wouldn’t worry too much because I, ah, saw her bus pass on the mantle so I think she’s been using that to get around instead of the car.” It all comes out in a rush.

Jean stops what he’s doing and looks blankly over at Armin. “What?”

“She has a bus pass. It was marked as a subsidized pass, if that . . . means anything to you.” He trails off, really embarrassed. He’s as good as admitted that he understood the nature of Jean and Gretchen’s conversation in the kitchen.

“She might’ve . . . she might’ve gotten one from work, yeah,” Jean mumbles, turning back to the engine.

“Yeah,” Armin says after a long pause, trying to fill the slightly strained silence that’s descended upon them. “Grandpa gets one from his employer too. He’s a community college teacher. He likes it better than driving, actually; says he’s cutting back on the LA smog, though it does take him a while to get places.”

Jean sighs, mumbles something that sounds vaguely like “too much pride,” and slams the hood of the sedan shut. “Well, that _should_ do it, but I’ll need to drive it around for thirty minutes or so to test it. So I’ll just be going around the block for a bit. Then I should probably shower before we go out.” He strips off his gloves and puts his tools away, keeping his eyes averted from Armin. Feeling the urge to do something useful, Armin picks up Jean’s coat from where he’s left it on a workbench and holds it out to him. Jean’s expression becomes fond as he takes the coat from Armin’s arms and squeezes him on the shoulder. “Thanks, Blondie.”

Armin knows he’s not talking about the coat. “No problem,” he replies softly.

* * *

Jean doesn’t confront his mother about the pass when she gets back from the store. He just tells her it was a battery problem and he’s pretty sure he fixed it, but he wants Sunny to come in and take a look, just in case. She frowns at that but doesn’t otherwise object. Sunny, Armin learns, is the eldest Springer child who lives with her husband and two children a couple of blocks away. She’s also a part-time mechanic and, apparently, the source of much of Jean’s car-related knowledge.

Jean’s friend Connie shows up at around 6:30 and announces his arrival by honking from the driveway. It’s a redundant gesture considering that his bass-heavy music is so loud they can hear it from inside the house. Jean hugs his mother and tells her not to wait up for them. Her only response is a long-suffering sigh and a request that they be in good enough shape to help with the cooking tomorrow.

Connie honks again as they cut across the yard to his waiting jeep and Jean claps his hands over his ears. “Dude!” he hollers as Connie rolls down the window and pokes his cackling round head out. “Conman! You’re too fucking loud!”

“Welcome back, Kirstein!” Connie calls back and waves for them to get in the car. Armin remembers seeing several photos of Connie on Jean’s Facebook page, and it really doesn’t appear that he’s changed his look all that much: he has close-cropped dark hair, a round face, and slightly bulging green eyes. Armin observes that while his features are quite plain, his face is artlessly open and expressive; right now he’s wearing a huge shit-eating grin and his eyes are alive with laughter.

Jean takes shotgun and Armin slides into the back, sitting in the middle so that he can see both Jean and Connie. The two men hug, patting each other on the back a few times, and then Connie turns around to enthusiastically shake Armin’s hand and ask him how he’s doing. Or at least that’s what Armin hopes Connie’s asking, since he responds “I’m good, and you?” It is very difficult to hear anything over the volume of the throbbing music. It’s clearly irritating Jean because he immediately turns it down despite Connie’s protests. “You’ll blow out your eardrums,” Jean chides.

“Ugh, what are you, my mom?” A petulant Connie huffs. “It’s creepy how responsible you’ve gotten since going to grad school.”

“Hey, you’ll thank me when you can still hear in twenty years.”

“Smartass,” Connie mutters.

“Igit,” Jean counters.

“Douchecanoe!”

“Dickwad.”

“Douche . . . waffle!”

“Okay, you’ve already used douche, so you lose,” Jean says matter-of-factly, buckling his seatbelt.

“No! That’s not a rule! You just can’t use the same _word_ twice, and a douchewaffle is not the same as a douchecanoe!” Connie responds hotly, putting the car in reverse and pulling out of the driveway.

Jean arches a skeptical eyebrow. “And what is the difference, exactly?”

“Uhhh . . .” What Armin can see of Connie’s face scrunches up in concentration and then suddenly lights up with epiphany. “A douchecanoe is someone who is so douchey you can’t even stand them, but a douchewaffle is someone who is just a little douchey.”

“So what you’re saying is that you downgraded your insult,” Jean smirks.

“Shut up, asshole!”

“Fuckwit.”

“Hoebag!”

“Nerf-herder!” Armin chimes in, trying to head off another swearing competition. Jean lets out a surprised “ha!” and turns to grin at Armin.

“Haha, good one Armin!” Connie crows.

“He said it on my turn so it counts as mine,” Jean’s tries.   

“Nuh-uh, it counts as a win for Armin.” 

“Oh, fine,” Jean concedes, shooting another amused look back at Armin. “He is the guest.”

“Yay, I win!” is all Armin can think to say, returning Jean’s smile. Maybe round two of meeting the family is getting off to a good start too.

Pissing contest over, Jean asks Connie about his work and Connie starts happily chatting away about his physical therapy practice and an elderly patient spent the day helping. They swing by a nice restaurant called _Kartoffel_ (“Southwall’s up-and-coming potato-themed gourmet restauraunt!” Connie brags) to pick up Connie’s wife Sasha, who is an undercook there. She’s not waiting for them out back like she’s supposed to be, so Connie gets out to go fetch her. Jean mumbles something about offering ladies shotgun and climbs into the back with Armin, who slides over to make room for him. “You holding up, Blondie?” he asks, stretching out his long legs and trying to get comfortable in the more cramped space. Their hands end up side-by-side on the middle seat—almost touching but not quite—and Armin suddenly can’t stop thinking about it. _Such a dork, such a dork, such a dork . . ._

“Yeah, totally. Connie’s great! Reminds me a bit of Eren,” he smiles reassuringly at Jean, whose shoulders relax a little with relief. Armin remembers that Jean must be worrying about how well Armin will take to his friends and family almost as much as Armin’s worrying about how well they’ll take to him.

“That’s your friend, right? The guy who married his adopted sister? Oh shit, that came out wrong. Not adopted, er . . . god-sister? Nope, still not what I want to say. It’s like a Victorian ward situation . . . thing.”

Armin can’t help but snicker at Jean’s struggles. “Yup, that’s him.” He hesitates for a split second and then pats Jean comfortingly on the hand. And then, slowly, experimentally, he takes Jean’s larger hand in his own, twining their fingers together. It’s such a small gesture but it makes his heart rabbit in his chest. Jean doesn’t pull away; in fact, he squeezes Armin’s hand back. His hand is warm and Armin’s suddenly very glad neither of them decided to wear gloves. He sneaks a look over at Jean’s face to see that, like him, Jean is blushing and grinning like a fool.

_Dorks!_

“Awww, look at you two cuties!”

Armin and Jean jump as the car door opens. A tall and slightly gangly woman with a long brown pony-tail and wicked brown eyes is now clambering into the front seat while Connie hops back into the driver’s spot. She’s wearing an oversized black pea coat, a long flowy skirt, and a massive smirk. This must be Sasha.

Armin’s initial instinct is to drop Jean’s hand like a hot coal but he forces himself to calm down. These are Jean’s friends and Sasha’s tone is good-natured. Jean underscores this point by squeezing Armin’s hand again. _It’s safe_.

“And where were you, Potato Girl?” Jean’s large smile undermines his demanding tone.

“In the bathroom!” She chirps, seeming unfazed by the nickname (what is it with Jean and nicknames anyway?).

Jean snorts at her candid explanation. “Um, gross.”

She ignores him in favor of giving Armin a friendly little wave. “Hello there! I’m Sasha!”

“Hi! I’m Armin.” He waves back with his free hand.

“Oh, trust me: I know. Jean-boy here wouldn’t stop texting me about you for a while. ‘O-M-G, Sasha!’” She puts on a lower voice and clutches a hand dramatically to her chest. “‘There’s this cute guy where I teach and I wanna ask him for his number but I don’t know how! Oh no, Sasha!’” She tilts her head back and scrunches her face up in anguish. “‘I broke the copier and he got mad at me and it was, like, the first time we talked but now we’ll never talk again! What should I dooooooo?’”

“Sh-shut up!” Jean lightly kicks the back of her chair while she cackles. There’s a swooping sensation in Armin’s stomach. Jean had noticed him before they met in the copy room? It’s totally possible, he supposes, that he and Jean crossed paths in the Pixis building earlier in the semester, but he doesn’t recall ever seeing Jean around before the incident with the copier a couple weeks ago. The idea of Jean crushing on him from afar makes him feel a little giddy; as far as he knows he’s never had a secret admirer like that. Is it really true? He peeks over at Jean and his deepening blush tells him all he needs to know. A shy smile spreads across Armin’s face.

“Anyway, I’m glad you’re here, Armin. We’ll load you up with all kinds of embarrassing stories about Jean-boy!”

“So where are we going?” Jean asks, raising his voice to speak over Sasha, who grins wickedly but allows him to change the subject. “O’Sullivan’s?”

Yes, it’s decided: they are indeed going to O’Sullivan’s. They find a space to park in downtown Southwall (an area so small it seems to be comprised of only a few blocks) and start walking to the bar. Sasha and Connie caper arm-in-arm down the side-walk while Jean and Armin follow at a slightly more sedate pace, still holding hands.  They’re not even drinking yet and Armin already feels a little buzzed, buoyed up by the infectious enthusiasm of Connie and Sasha, the idea that Jean had noticed him a while ago, and the warmth of Jean’s fingers around his.

O’Sullivan’s turns out to be exactly the type of Irish-American pub one might expect from its name. The lights are low, there are Guinness advertisements all over the walls, all the furniture is dark wood, and a football game is blaring out from the TV behind the bar. They’ve barely shed their coats and settled into a booth before Sasha declares that she has to use the bathroom again. Jean laughs at her forthrightness but Armin frowns thoughtfully. Frequently needing to use the restroom can signal of a lot of things, not of all them serious or even worth mentioning, but he makes a note of it, just in case. And then he feels weird about it. _Normal people don’t keep tabs on other people’s bathroom habits._ He tries turn his mind to something else. Luckily Connie chooses that moment to start peppering Armin with questions about his work and he gets caught up in answering them.

They order dinner when Sasha comes back. Connie gets two pitchers of beer for the table and opens a tab. Sasha declares she will be acting as designated driver and then, completely sober, orders an incredibly bizarre combination of food. “I’ll have the chicken pot-pie and an order of cheesy chili fries, please? Oh can I also have a couple pickles and some coleslaw with that?” The server raises an eyebrow but jots it all down. Armin’s stomach churns at the thought of eating all that but Jean just chuckles fondly, like this is nothing unusual for Sasha.

“Once a potato girl, always a potato girl, huh?” he teases. “Aren’t you supposed to be refining your palette, now that you’re working at fancy restaurant?”

Sasha’s only response is to stick her tongue out at him.

The conversation turns to local gossip and childhood friends while they wait for their dinner and Connie, Jean, and Armin start on their first round of drinks. Armin is content to sip his beer and listen, enjoying the lively chatter and friendly atmosphere of the pub—and, of course, sitting with Jean’s arm slung around the booth behind him, their knees pressing together under the table. For his part, Jean seems to be really in his element here, obviously happy to see his friends and be home for a little while.

Sasha’s just wrapping up a wild story about a particularly disgruntled customer when Armin’s phone bleeps to tell him he’s received a snap from Eren. He opens it to find a picture of Eren and Mikasa wearing matching sunglasses and lounging like models by the Yeagers’ outdoor pool. They’re not in swimsuits and Armin knows it’s too cold to swim this time of year, but Eren’s caption still says “jelly?” followed by several very smug looking emoji. Armin feels a slight stab of homesickness, but it’s dulled by Connie and Sasha’s loud laughter and Jean’s warm presence by his side. On a whim, he elbows Jean and holds out his phone.

“I want to send my friend a snapchat. Help me out?”

Jean raises a quizzical eyebrow. “You don’t know how to snapchat?”

Armin shakes his head. “Eren made me get it so he could send me pics, but I don’t use it much myself.”

Jean sighs in mock-exasperation as he takes Armin’s proffered phone, opens the app, and then leans in, pressing their faces together while holding out the phone to get good angle for the front-facing camera. Armin thinks his grin must be a little maniacal: Jean’s closeness is doing horrible things to his heart and it shows up in his expression. He supposes it helps that Jean’s smile looks a bit goofy as well; maybe it’ll seem like they’re being deliberately weird. After taking the photo, Jean sits back and gestures for Armin to go over to Connie and Sasha for another one. Armin aims for a slightly calmer smile in this one, but his efforts are thwarted by Connie flexing his admittedly impressive muscles and Sasha crossing her eyes. Back in his seat, Jean helps Armin send the snaps and then messages copies of the photos to himself, despite Armin’s objections.

“I look creepy in that first one!” Armin protests, yanking his phone out of Jean’s grasp.

“Nahhh you look . . .” Jean glances down at the picture on his own phone and snickers. “Ok, you look, erm, well, a little . . . disturbed. But in a cute way, don’t worry.”

“How do you look disturbed and cute at the same time?” Connie asks, genuinely perplexed, and Sasha dissolves into giggles.

Jean sighs. “Haven’t you ever seen a Joss Whedon show Connie? ‘Cute and disturbed’ is his whole aesthetic.”

Just then, Armin’s phone trills as a new text message flares up on his lock screen. He’s not surprised to see it’s from Eren (who is pretty much always on his phone) but the content of the text does alarm him enough that he claps his hand over the screen before anyone else can see.

_Ur boi has a horseface?!?!?! =P_

“Everything okay there?” Connie asks. Armin realizes that the whole table is looking at him with concern and he flushes.

“Ah-ha-ha, it’s nothing just er, my friend texting me. He’s just . . . teasing me, is all. He, ah, doesn’t understand cute and disturbed either, hah. And it’s probably pretty rude of me to have my phone out so I’ll just, put it away now . . .”

Sasha and Connie seem to buy his explanation but Jean’s eyes narrow as he considers Armin. Armin forces a smile (hopefully one that’s not as creepy as his snapchat face) and shrugs, tucking his phone away. Jean apparently decides not to press him on the subject because he turns back to the others and starts a conversation about some local band.

Once he’s sure Jean’s distracted, Armin sneaks an assessing look over at him. _Horseface?_ Okay, yeah, Jean’s face is longer than the average person’s and he has high cheekbones . . . and his chin juts out a bit in a slightly horsey manner . . . and his eyes are kind of beady . . . but none of that really detracts from his appearance, Armin thinks. He has expressive face with lots of character, which Armin prefers to something more generically handsome. _What does Eren know about it, anyway?_

When the food arrives, Armin learns that Sasha’s eating habits are even stranger in practice. She cuts up her chili-smothered fries, dips them into the sauce of her pot-pie, and tops it off with some coleslaw. She munches away happily while everyone else pulls identical faces of disgust.

“Okay, that’s weird, even for you, Sash.” Jean looks distinctly green now. “I can’t sit here and watch you eat this. For fuck’s sake, you’re a fucking chef now!”

“Oh c’mon,” Sasha says around a mouthful of food. “Snot dat bad.”

“It is, baby, it is,” Connie mumbles, looking away from what she’s doing like it physically pains him.

Armin suppresses his own gag reflex and tucks into his dinner. The food at O’Sullivan’s is decent: very hearty and salty, which is good because Armin’s halfway into his second pint and starting to feel the alcohol now. It’s a pleasant buzz that’s making him smile more freely and laugh a little louder, but he knows there’s a timer on how long it will last before he starts getting drowsy. He’s never been very good at holding his drink—despite Eren’s best efforts to fix that in college—and he’s definitely the sleepy type of drunk. He supposes he’d better pace himself if they’re going to be out for a while.

After they finish eating and Connie gets them their third pitcher, Sasha leans forward on her elbows and fixes Armin with an inquisitive look. “Sooooooo, Armin,” she drawls. “Tell us a bit about yourself.”

“Um, well,” he begins. “I’m studying to be a geologist.”

Sasha waves a dismissive hand. “Oh, not stuff like that. I know all that kind of stuff from blabbermouth over there.” She nods at Jean, who shoots her a glare over the top of his pint. “I’m talking about the dirt. Any skeletons in your closest? Have you . . . committed any crimes? Are you secretly a Nickleback fan?”

Maybe it’s the beer, but Armin’s not actually feeling that threatened by this inquest. “Nothing so serious,” he replies with a grin and Connie chortles into his beer.

“Okay, well, what’s your opinion of the Red Sox? The Bruins? The Patriots?”

“Sasha,” Jean warns.

“I don’t follow sports,” Armin confesses. “I was on a youth soccer team with Eren when I was younger, but I, er, wasn’t very good.”

To his surprise, Sasha is nodding. “That’s okay, we can work with that. From now on you support the Bruins, the Red Sox, the Patriots, and maybe the Celtics, but they’re not as important.”

“Er . . . okay?” Armin wants to be amenable, but it’s starting to feel like Sasha’s talking a different language.

Jean’s shaking his head. “You don’t have to listen to her, Armin. _And_ you don’t have to watch any of the football games tomorrow if you don’t want to, even if she tries to force you.”

Sasha starts pouting and Armin feels a little torn. “Well, uh, sometimes I watch sports with Eren and Mikasa. I don’t mind.” He offers a timid smile to Sasha. “But you’ll have to remind me of the rules.”

“Yay! Don’t worry, we’ll make a fan out of you yet!” She pumps her fist in the air enthusiastically.

“Pushover,” Jean leans over to whisper. Armin’s neck breaks out into goosebumps at the feel of Jean’s breath on his ear.

The evening starts winding down at around eleven, when the bartender rings the bell for last orders and Connie, Armin, and Jean are reaching the bottom of their fourth pitcher. Armin’s made his way through two and a half glasses now, and it’s starting to feel like a lot of work to sit upright and keep his heavy eyelids open. Connie turns out to be a bit of a giggly drinker and Jean is apparently the type to get loud and slightly argumentative. He’s in the middle of very carefully explaining to Sasha why the fourth season of _Mad Men_ is clearly the best one when Armin’s head finally droops onto the table.

“Oh no, a casualty!” Connie snickers.

“Hey, Blondie,” Jean’s voice is surprisingly soft considering how vehemently he was just discussing Peggy Olsen’s magnificent character development arc. Armin feels a light touch on his back and turns his head to face Jean, smiling groggily up at him.

“’M fine.”

Jean gently rubs Armin’s shoulders a few times and looks over at Sasha. “We should probably get back.”

“Okay.” Sasha says, but she doesn’t move. Instead, she elbows a still chuckling Connie to get his attention and gives him a very significant look.

Connie abruptly stops laughing. “Oh yeah, right,” he gulps. Armin sits up when he sees that Connie suddenly appears nervous. The world is spinning and it’s difficult to hold things in focus but his brain valiantly struggles through the fog to process the changing situation. _Wake up, something’s up._

Connie takes Sasha’s hand in both of his own and the two of them turn to face Jean and Armin.

“So, we have kind of a big announcement actually,” Sasha begins, her face turning slightly pink.

“You’re pregnant!” Armin blurts as everything clicks into place: Sasha’s frequent trips to the bathroom, the weird food she had consumed, the loose dress she’s wearing (though that could just be her sense of fashion), and her offer to be the designated driver for the evening all slot together to make a coherent whole. He’s certain enough and drunk enough to be unconcerned about the potential fallout of assuming someone’s pregnant when they’re not.

“You’re pregnant!” Jean laughs at almost exactly the same time, his eyes bright with mischief and his tone suggesting that he’s not entirely serious. He looks over at Armin to share the joke but his smile slips when he sees Armin beaming sincerely over at his friends. Armin feels Jean’s hand slide from his shoulders.

“Congratulations!” Armin cries, reaching over to pat Connie and Sasha’s joined hands. The alcohol swirling in his system amplifies his joy for these people he barely knows, but is already starting to like very much indeed. _What great news!_ Connie and Sasha share a bemused look.

“Was it really that obvious?” Connie asks, his brow still furrowed in confusion.

“I only got it _just_ now. Ahhhh, that’s so wonderful! Jean, isn’t that wonderf--,” he stops when he turns to Jean and finds him frowning across the table.

“Wha? Oh, er, yes . . . wonderful . . .” There’s a heavy pause and then, “Was it planned?” The incredulity in his tone makes Armin wince.

Across the table Connie’s open face rapidly runs the gamut from surprised to hurt while Sasha squares her shoulders defensively. “Does it matter?”

“Kinda, yeah.”

Alarm flares up inside Armin, cutting through the previously pleasant haze of alcohol. The lighthearted mood is souring _very_ quickly. Sasha and Connie are going to have a baby and instead of being happy for his friends Jean appears to be upset . . . but why?

Fortunately, he doesn’t have to wait long for Jean to spell it out for him. “Okay, but why now?” he starts, his words slow like he’s struggling to keep some kind of emotion in check. “A kid’s a lot of responsibility. You _just_ got married this summer, you’re still renting, Sasha’s still in training, and Connie, your practice is barely off the ground. And you both still have student loans! Should you really be adding a kid to the mix?”

“My practice is going great!” Connie objects at the same time as his wife mutters, “It doesn’t work that way,” in a dangerously quiet voice. Armin inhales sharply when he looks over at Jean again and sees the stubborn set in the other man’s jaw. _This is not going anywhere pleasant_. And it feels so much worse because Armin’s not sure how to interfere. Their current relationship is too nebulous at the moment for Armin to drag Jean away to cool off for a bit . . . but maybe he can play the guest card before Jean says something else he’ll probably regret later?

“Um,” he pipes up just as Jean opens his mouth to continue the argument. Everyone’s eyes snap to him, like they’ve just remembered that he’s there. “I, uh, don’t wanna . . .” he gulps. “. . . be a bother but I think I’m dead on my feet and uh, maybe, I should get back. Sorry!” he adds hurriedly, sneaking another look over at Jean. The other man is flushed again, but whether with anger or embarrassment, Armin can’t tell.

Sasha forces a thin smile. “Of course. Let’s pay the tab and we’ll get you home.”

The silence in the car ride back to Jean’s place is tense. No one turns the radio on. The usually energetic Connie sits very still in the front seat. Jean slouches beside Armin and stares sullenly out the window. For the second time in twenty-four hours Armin feels like an intruder someone else’s private drama; he wants to get to the bottom of it, to be helpful if he can, but he’s in no position to do so. He remembers that tomorrow is Thanksgiving and shudders—will this quarrel taint the holiday? He considers Jean’s sulking profile. _I know Jean’s big on responsibility, but why is making_ such _a fuss about this? There must be something . . ._ he can feel himself on the verge of an answer, his brain fighting against the dulling power of all the beer he drank, but at that exact moment they pull up into the Kirstein’s driveway and it’s time to say goodnight. Jean wordlessly hops out and slams the door behind him.

“Uh, th-thank you so much for the great evening!” Armin stutters. “And see you tomorrow!”

“Yeah,” Sasha mumbles, staring sightlessly ahead. “See you.”

Armin staggers out of the car and follows Jean into the quiet house. All the lights are off except for the ones in the living room, indicating that Gretchen has already turned in for the evening.  Jean is slumped on the sofa, glaring at the fireplace like it’s personally offended him. He hasn’t even bothered to remove his shoes or coat.

Armin clears his throat to get Jean’s attention. “H-hey.”

Jean takes a deep breath through his nose and glances over at Armin. They lock eyes for a split second and then Jean seems to deflate and drops his head into his hands. “Oh fuck, I’m an idiot.”

“You’re . . . something,” is all Armin can think to say, and Jean snorts.

“You don’t have to coddle me, Armin. I know I fucked up.”

Armin pads over to sit on the couch next to Jean, carefully placing a hand on his back. Jean doesn’t move away but he doesn’t look up either. Armin’s still-sluggish mind mulls over the scene in O’Sullivan’s once more, so close to an answer for what’s really happening and yet not quite there yet. He really wants to help Jean, this goofy, grumpy, horse-faced, philosopher-nerd who’s somehow managed to capture his affection despite only having stumbled into his life two weeks ago. Armin glances around the room as if searching for a hint and his eyes alight on the mantel. All at once he thinks he knows.

“Hey, Jean,” he begins softly. “I don’t . . . I don’t know if you want to talk about it yet, but I think they’re going to be okay. Even if they didn’t plan this, they have a lotta people to help.” _Like you, when you’re ready_. “They’re not _that_ young and they both have jobs. And loads of parents still have debt! It’s not . . . it’s not the same situation that your mom was in.”

There’s the kicker.

Jean sits up slowly and looks over at him, and for once Armin has trouble reading his expression. Did Armin overstep a boundary? He _thinks_ he’s right, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that this something _he_ can talk about with Jean yet. Still, Jean values honesty, right? And they have to start this relationship somewhere, right? And Armin knows all about growing up with less to go around and having to lean on the kindness of neighbors, even when a misplaced sense of pride makes you want to pull away. Armin nervously chews his lip as he waits for a response.

The tension breaks when Jean sighs and looks away. “You’re right.”

Armin lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Jean’s going to let him into this part of his life, to trust him with the harder details of his childhood. He feels emboldened to continue. “And even if it was, things have turned out pretty well for you. Or, no, sorry, maybe that’s a little . . .” Armin trails off searching for the word.

“Presumptuous?” Jean supplies, the corner of his mouth ticking up just a fraction. “Don’t worry, I get what you mean and I’m not offended.” His shoulders droop again. “I _am_ offended by the way I behaved though. Jesus-fucking-Christ, I’m a prick. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize to me. And I know you’re worried about them because you care. But they’re adults now and they make their own choices and you gotta respect that.”

Jean runs a hand through his hair in distress. “Well, I’m sorry for making a scene. That’s, what? The second time I’ve done that to you now? Christ. But really I need to apologize to Connie and Sash. What was I _thinking_? Scratch that: I wasn’t.”

Armin pats him comfortingly on the shoulder. “Yeah. But it’ll be okay, I think. They’re your family.”

“Yeah, but what do I say?” Jean groans. “I’m sorry guys, I fucked up? I’m a real douchecanoe and your first box of diapers is on me?”

“Maybe,” Armin muses, taking the suggestion at face value. “I dunno them all that well, but we could strat-e . . . strate _gize_ the best way to apologize to them.” Armin struggles to get his rebellious tongue to make the right words. He’s beginning to relax now that Jean seems to be calming down and his drowsiness is returning. It’s so warm inside, compared to outside, and today’s been so long . . .

Jean lolls his head back on the couch and raises his eyebrows at Armin, a hint of amusement in the expression—he almost looks like his usual wry self. “Maybe tomorrow. Right now I think I’m gonna watch some junk TV for bit until I can fall asleep.” Armin yawns as soon as he mentions sleeping. “You should go to bed. Sorry for keeping you up.”

“Nah,” Armin mumbles. “S’fine.” Without really thinking about what he’s doing (not that his brain is really up to thinking anymore), he curls up against Jean’s side and leans his head on his shoulder. Jean makes a muffled noise of surprise, but a moment later his hand slips around Armin’s waist and he tugs him closer. This close, Armin remembers just how much he likes the way Jean smells. _It’s probably mostly pheromones, but the soap is nice too._ They sit like that for a few moments before Jean whispers into Armin’s hair, “Not that I’m not enjoying this, but I’m starting to get really overheated in this coat.” Armin chuckles sleepily at that and they both get up to remove their winter gear.

A little bit later, Armin drifts off to sleep on the couch, his head tucked under Jean’s chin and his arm slung over Jean’s fit waist, lulled by the laugh track on a late-night comedy show and Jean’s regular breathing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhhhhhhhh this chapter took so much out of me for some reason! It was so hard to write! It's so long; it simultaneously seems too long and not long enough! I feel like I get bogged down in meaningless details but also like my characterization is flat. I found it difficult to characterize Jean's mother (who I'm just making up, since she's not a presence at all in the manga and only gets mentioned once, in passing, in chapter 72; before then Jean could've been an orphan for all we knew lol) and Jean's relationship with Connie and Sasha was also a struggle for me. I tried to go for a post-Uprising Jean as nagging-yet-beloved big-bro feel, but I'm not sure I pulled that off. Also I rewrote the fight at the end a few times, that was the hardest for me; it initially felt too angry, but now I wonder if it feels too flat . . . I wanted some tension (yay, tension xD) and when I wrote this in my outline I was like "yes, perfect, makes sense" but now . . . ack. Writing is so hard :( Also writing pretty-tipsy-but-not-exactly-drunk-but-definitely-tired Armin was hard . . . everything was hard, essentially. xD 
> 
> I also hope the drama doesn't feel contrived/unrealistic :(
> 
> Two things: I promise I have some steamier stuff planned eventually and that my "M" tag will be justified; I still feel kinda bad that I haven't really written anything to justify it yet though. Should I lower it to teen? I feel like that would ultimately be counterproductive, but I'd be up for it, if that would be better? Also, you may have noticed my name changed! That's to line it up with my tumblr: https://goodguyjean.tumblr.com/. Feel free to stop by to chat with me about AoT :)
> 
> I appreciate all comments, constructive criticism, and kudos!! Thanks for reading!


	6. Brownie Points

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean has a unique way of apologizing. Armin offers moral support. Eren expresses some of his anxieties about adulthood.

Armin wakes up to gray November sunlight leaking through the blinds of an unfamiliar window into an unfamiliar room and experiences a moment of panicky disorientation until he remembers: he’s in the spare bedroom of the Kirsteins’ Massachusetts home, visiting his almost-probably-boyfriend-whom-he-hasn’t-even-kissed-yet’s family for Thanksgiving.

Armin rolls onto his back with a sigh, his muscles protesting at having slept the night in a strange bed, and a slightly uncomfortable sofa one at that. He stares up at the popcorn ceiling, blinking eyes that are scratchy from having dozed off last night while still wearing his contact lenses. Thankfully, he wasn’t napping with them in his eyes for very long (he vaguely remembers Jean shaking him awake and sending him to bed at some point last night) and he took them out before actually going to sleep, but his eyes are still a little itchy. He’s brought his glasses along in case of an emergency such as this one, so he should probably wear them today. He allows himself a little smile when he thinks back to Jean’s very positive reaction to his glasses, surprising as it had been; but that smile quickly fades when he considers the prospect of wearing them to meet the rest of the Springers for Thanksgiving dinner  . . .

. . . the rest of the Springers . . .

Armin throws his arm over his face and groans as the events of last night come flooding back: Sasha and Connie announcing they were going to have a baby, Jean freaking out because he was worried about his childhood friends taking on that responsibility (and, Armin reflects, possibly coping with the realization that he himself is, in fact, old enough to be a parent now), and Armin tipsily trying to calm Jean down afterwards. He had fallen asleep last night feeling like everything was going to be okay, but thinking over the situation in the morning he realizes what an emotional tangle it all is. And, to top it all off, today is Thanksgiving, a family holiday where everyone is already stressed out from trying to get along with relatives they may not have seen for ages and also from trying to make enough—preferably delicious, although that’s not always necessarily the case—food for everyone to eat. All things considered, Armin can only visualize two endings to any apology Jean attempts to make today: either the Springer-Blouses will be riding the holiday high and quickly forgive Jean, or Jean will end up wearing the pumpkin pie instead of eating it.

Even though Armin’s not really the one who has to sort any of this mess out, just thinking about how the day could go for Jean is enough to make him want to hide under the covers and skip this Thanksgiving altogether. But he’s here now, and Jean might need him for advice or as a buffer or as some sort of moral support or . . .

His stomach does a nervous flip when he realizes he’s thinking of Jean and himself as a team. But what _are_ they, really? Apart from a few quick conversations to verify that they are, in fact, dating and that they should present themselves as such to Jean’s family, Armin and Jean have not discussed their exact relationship status. Armin’s been thinking of them as “almost boyfriends” but what exactly is he waiting for that would put them more securely into the boyfriend category? And how on earth does _Jean_ define them? They’ve just started to show physical affection towards each other, but Armin’s already meeting Jean’s family and they’re already trying to take care of each other’s emotions like they’ve been together for months when really they only met exactly two weeks ago (Armin decides he can’t count Jean’s apparently pre-existing crush as part of their relationship, since they hadn’t officially met yet). Armin likes labels, rules, and steps to help make sense of things, but so far Jean’s been pretty good at avoiding all of those—not purposely, Armin knows—and he just can’t wrap his mind around what is going on between them, even when he really tries to think things through. They’re not following any “beginning of a relationship” model that he recognizes.

Armin is particularly chagrined by how befuddled he feels because this isn’t his first relationship— _then_ maybe some of this confusion would be understandable! Armin has always preferred serious connections to casual dating, and he’s had a couple of significant boyfriends over the course of his adult years. But while the beginnings of those relationships had hiccups and puzzling moments, for the most part Armin always felt like he had a grasp on what was happening and where they were in the process. There’s a template—he’s decided—for starting a new monogamous relationship: you meet someone you find attractive or interesting, you go out a few times, you decide you like them well enough to see them semi-regularly, you start to get a little physical, and then you decide you’re an exclusive couple. The attachment and trust just grows organically from there, until something happens to disrupt them. But for some reason Armin feels like he and Jean have just clicked together in record time and are now going through the motions so that it makes sense for them to be where they already _are_.

The ambiguity makes Armin nervous. He feels like he’s waiting for something to happen that will help him classify them, something specific. But what? Is he waiting for a kiss? Will that make everything more comfortable? It seems like too simple of a solution. Is it just that more time needs to pass in order for the strength of his affection for Jean to make sense to him? Maybe. _Or maybe for once in your life you should just stop overthinking things and go with the flow._

_But that’s a little terrifying._

Armin sighs again and tries to put his worries on his mind’s back burner, where they can simmer for too long and turn into noxious sludge but at least he won’t have to deal with them immediately. To distract himself, he reaches for his phone, which he left on the arm of the sofa before going to sleep last night. He turns it on to check the time and his messages, holding it close to his face so he can make out exactly what’s on the screen: it’s 9:15 AM and he Eren sent him four messages after he turned his phone off last night:

**ER0N**

**Thursday 12:18 AM**

duuuuuude fucking shadis is coming over for dinner 2morrow.

erry dam year!!

ughhhhh doesn’t he have any other friends???

**Thursday 1:09 AM**

grrr mom’s bothering us abt grandkids again >< . . .

Armin gives an involuntary splutter when he reads the last text. It seems like an eerie coincidence, considering what Sasha and Connie announced last night. _What is it about Thanksgiving and babies? Are Jean and I living in parallel universes, where what happens in one is mirrored in the other?_ Setting aside that potentially interesting idea for a science-fiction story, Armin replies:

**ER0N**

**Thursday 9:17 AM**

Well, what did you guys say?

He chews his lip, thinks about Connie and Sasha again, and adds:

Do you want kids?

His stomach twists in knots at the thought of Eren and Mikasa as parents, not because he doesn’t think they would be good ones (Mikasa would certainly be an excellent mother and Eren’s childish nature would probably endear him to kids, at the very least), but because it would feel like yet another instance of his friends getting further ahead of him in terms of “notable life events.” He knows _logically_ that life isn’t a checklist of tasks that have to be completed in a particular order, but it’s hard not to feel like Eren and Mikasa are always racing forward while he stagnates in graduate school, lost among thick books about the sediment composition of the ocean floor. It raises a lot of uncomfortable questions about his own future plans . . . no, he’s not going down this rabbit hole right now. California is three hours behind Massachusetts and Eren always sleeps in, so it’ll be ages before Armin gets a reply. He should set this train of thought aside for now as well.

_Compartmentalize. Focus. What do you need to do right now?_

He also has a message from Mikasa asking how he’s doing and if they can Facetime at some point during the holiday. He responds in the affirmative, and then forces himself to get out of bed and face the day. He collects his clothes (just jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt; he figures he’ll change for dinner later if he needs to) and toiletries, puts on his glasses, and tip-toes into the hallway to head to the shower.

As soon as he steps out of the spare room he’s overwhelmed by the rich smells of coffee and baking pie and he feels a stab of guilt: there’s probably a lot of preparation to do for dinner and he’s slept in pretty late, all things considered. A quick glance down the hallway tells him that Jean and Gretchen are already up and working, since their bedroom doors are open. _Crap._

“Armin?” Gretchen pokes her head into the hallway from the living room. “Aha, good morning! Those are some wicked cute glasses! If you want to shower, I’ve left a clean towel for you on the sink.”

“Ah, thank you. Sorry I woke up so late!”

Just as Gretchen’s shaking her head at his apology, there’s a loud crash followed by equally loud cursing. “I’m fine!” Jean calls out in a slightly strangled voice. “Everything’s fine!” It sounds like he’s trying to convince himself more than anything: not exactly reassuring, Armin reflects.

Gretchen casts a concerned look towards the kitchen and then tip-toes into the hallway to hold a whispered conference with Armin, who’s a little bit embarrassed to be talking to her while still in his pajamas. She doesn’t seem to notice his discomfort, however, and, ever direct, gets straight to the point: “Something happened last night, didn’t it? Jean’s been a little . . . beside himself, this morning.”

Before Armin can think of a suitable reply, Jean interrupts them with a desperate plea. “Ma! Where’s the peanut butter?”

“There should be an open jar in the pantry somewhere! Red lid!” She yells in answer, then turns back to Armin, frowning. “I asked him about it, but he wouldn’t tell me a thing! But I know something’s up because Jeanie’s insisting on making Connie’s favorite brownies, and he only does that when they’ve had a fight.” She looks expectantly at Armin, waiting for him to confirm her theory.

“Uh, I’m not, uh, really, erm, sure . . .” Armin struggles to figure out what to say. Gretchen’s brow is creased with worry for her son. He wants to be helpful and get along with Gretchen, he really does, but he’s also not sure that the full extent of what went down at _O’Sullivan’s_ last night is something that he has any right to tell her. Does she already know, for instance, that Sasha is pregnant? Would Jean want his mother to know his reaction to the news?

Fortunately, he’s spared having to come up an answer for her because at that moment a distraught Jean demands to know where the glass baking dishes have gone. “Why aren’t they under the stove? Ma?”

“Keep your pants on, I’m coming!” She turns back to Armin with a long-suffering sigh. “He’s such a handful, isn’t he?” Without waiting for a reply, she gives Armin a friendly pat on the shoulder and goes to help her son.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Armin ducks into the bathroom and takes the quickest shower he can manage, his brain churning over the new information Gretchen has given him. Jean has a particular way of apologizing to Connie. He’s clearly had to do this before . . . but over something this big? And what about apologizing to Sasha? Does she like peanut-butter brownies too? An image of Sasha dipping her chili fries into her pot pie pops into Armin’s mind. _Food’s probably also a safe bet for sweetening the deal when it comes to Sasha._

Once he’s showered and dressed, he makes his way to the dining room, where he finds a scruffy-looking Jean sitting at the table and staring morosely into a steaming cup of coffee. His short hair is sticking up in all directions, there’s a dusting of stubble on his chin, and his black hoodie and flannel pajama bottoms are covered in flour, but the smell of baking chocolate and peanut butter tells Armin that Jean managed to get his brownies in the oven. Gretchen, it appears, has claimed the kitchen, where she’s busy chopping something that makes a loud crunching sound as she slices through it.

“Oh, here’s Armin!” Gretchen exclaims a little too cheerfully, putting down her knife and bounding out of the kitchen to gesture at Armin like she’s Vanna White showing off a brand new car for the contestants on _Wheel of Fortune._ Jean looks up at his mother’s antics and does a bit of a double-take when he sees Armin, his eyes lingering on Armin’s glasses and the damp curtains of blond hair framing his face. Then he drops his eyes back to his cup with a muted, “G’morning.” Armin notices the tips of his ears are tinged pink.

There’s an awkward pause while Gretchen glances meaningfully between the two of them, obviously waiting for something to happen. When Jean continues to keep his eyes averted and Armin starts fidgeting nervously, she lets out a loud sigh and turns back to the kitchen. “How do you take your coffee, Armin?”

“Um, I’ll just have some milk, please. Thank you!”

Gretchen returns with a brimming mug, sets it on the table at the place next to her son, and then starts walking off towards the living room. “The parade is on: I’d like to catch some of it before I get too far along on food prep,” she says by way of explanation, although she shoots Armin a very loaded look over her shoulder. _Talk to him_. Then she’s gone, and the silence that stretches between Armin and Jean is suddenly filled with boisterous marching-band music and excited chattering about parade floats as she turns on the TV.

Resisting the urge to sigh himself, Armin plops into the chair next to Jean. However, Jean stands up almost as soon as Armin sits down, the legs of his chair squeaking as they slide across the linoleum. “You take sugar too, I remember. Let me get it for you.” He’s off to the kitchen himself before Armin can even think to protest, rummaging in a cabinet until he produces a large yellow plastic tub of sugar. He brings the tub back to Armin, who just stares at it in bemusement.

Jean follows Armin’s gaze and then gives himself an exaggerated smack on the forehead. It leaves a pink mark in the shape of his palm that makes Armin wince. “Oh, fuck. You need a spoon too. Stupid me!”

Another trip to the kitchen, this time to open a drawer. He returns with a teaspoon, holding it out to Armin who takes it with a murmured, “Thanks.”

“Oh, and breakfast. You need breakfast. What would you like? Ah shit, I was gonna make pancakes, I forgot. Well, I guess I can start them, but the kitchen’s a mess . . . doesn’t matter, the kitchen’s going to be a mess anyway. So, fuck it: pancakes it is then!”

Jean turns towards the kitchen for a third time, but Armin grabs him by the wrist with both hands, gently tugging him back. “I-It’s okay, Jean. I don’t want pancakes, but thank you for the offer!”

“Cereal? I could get you some cereal. I also saw some bananas in the pantry, though they’re starting to go a bit brown—”

 “Jean!” Armin cuts him off more forcefully than intended, raising his voice in an exasperated attempt to get through to his, well, “almost boyfriend.” It seems to work because Jean goes still, although he also doesn’t move to sit down again. For a brief moment the only sound that can be heard is the tinny singing of some pop star on the TV in the living room; it reminds Armin that they’re not really alone. Gretchen is only a few feet away, undoubtedly listening as best she can over the noise from the TV. Armin continues in a lower tone, “Really, I’m fine. I’ll get food later. Please sit down?”

At last, Jean properly meets Armin’s eyes. After a split second of hesitation he sighs and complies with Armin’s request, slumping back into his chair. Armin loosens his grip on Jean’s arm but doesn’t let go.

“I’m sorry, Armin,” Jean begins, hanging his head slightly, his gaze sliding to the floor once more. “I just . . .,” He pauses as he searches for the right words, running his free hand through his hair; Armin sees how it got so wild, if Jean’s been nervously mussing it all morning. “I dunno. I woke up and realized exactly how much of a shithead I am. The way I behaved yesterday”—he winces—“It was really embarrassing.”

Armin shrugs a little and pats Jean comfortingly on the arm. “If it helps at all, I’ve seen something like this before, and I think it’ll turn out okay.”

Jean snorts. “Really? Who else do you know who gets upset at his responsible, adult friends for having a baby?”

“Hmmm. Well, I’ve seen my friend Eren get into very public arguments with his neighbor Mr. Hannes about his drinking habits . . . at block parties, for example . . . and once at a yard sale . . .”

“Huh?” Jean looks up, his tone becoming a little less sullen and a little more curious. “Well, _did_ this Hannes guy have a problem?”

“Yes,” Armin admits. “A couple years ago Mr. Hannes ended up in the ER with alcohol poisoning. He’s fine!” He adds quickly in response to Jean’s shocked expression. “But it was a real wake-up call. He’s in a recovery program now, coming up on three years sober this spring. But I know Eren felt guilty for, ah, being so hard on him once we learned the full extent of his problem.”

“Jesus,” Jean murmurs. “That’s rough.”

“I think,” Armin says slowly as he carefully laces his fingers with Jean’s on the table. “That Eren was really worried about Mr. Hannes, but not, er, the best at expressing it. I know he felt really guilty afterwards, even though Mr. Hannes’ alcohol problems weren’t his fault. He helped Mr. Hannes do house and yard work for a few months while he started his recovery process.”

“Wow. That’s, uh, a lot of work.” Jean frowns at him. “But that’s not at all the same type of thing as what I’ve done. There was a real problem there and, yeah, Eren might not have chosen the best way to handle it but eventually this man was going to need someone or something to push him into recovery. I just . . . took out my own anxiety on my friends.”

“Okay, I see your point,” Armin offers. “They’re not exactly the same type of thing. But I think your friends understand that you were worried, even if you didn’t, um, articulate that worry in the most productive way. I think they’ll accept your apology, especially if it comes with brownies.”

“Ma told you about our brownies, then,” Jean scratches his nose, looking a little sheepish.

“She’s concerned,” Armin whispers, nodding towards the living room. “But I didn't tell her anything. Do you think she knows?”

“About Sasha?” Jean leans back in his chair, his brow furrowed in thought. He’s relaxing a bit now, Armin can tell: some tension has left his shoulders and he’s absent-mindedly stroking the back of Armin’s hand with his thumb (which is a bit distracting, Armin has to admit). “Probably not. I mean, Sasha can’t be far along. She isn’t really showing . . . but you guessed her symptoms correctly anyway. I suppose it’s _possible_ that Ma’s put it all together, if she’s seen Sasha recently.”

Armin’s lips twitch and he raises an eyebrow. “Symptoms? Pregnancy’s a disease now?”

“Ok, fine: signs, whatever. You know what I mean.” Jean waves off Armin’s objection with an airy hand. “Point is, I’m betting people don’t know yet. Not only is it early, but Connie and Sasha are big into showboating so they’ll want to make a huge deal out of their announcement.”

Armin finds himself nodding. He can see Connie and Sasha being a little bit theatrical, based on their behavior last night. “Like, sometime during dinner today, perhaps? When the whole family is there?”

“Exactly. Huh,” Jean frowns again. “Yeah, that’s exactly what they’d do. So why’d they tell me yesterd—,”Jean breaks off as his hazel eyes widen with horrified realization. “Oh.”

Armin squeezes Jean’s hand in sympathy. “Hey, look on the bright side! If they expected you might, ah, need some more time to process, they’re probably not as mad as you think!”

“Nobody wants to be ‘managed’ by their friends, Armin.” Jean’s gone quite pale now. “Christ, I suck!”

“Everybody manages everybody else, to some degree,” Armin points out. “It’s human. It’s how relationships work. They wanted to give you time to digest the news, because they knew that you would worry, based on your own life experiences. And now you have digested it, so it’ll be fine once you apologize.”

Jean shoots Armin a skeptical look. “And you’d be so calm, if our places were swapped?”

Armin’s mouth twists in a wry smile. Jean returns it, his eyes crinkling with a mixture of amusement and fondness that makes Armin’s heart skip a beat. Jean opens his mouth to say something, perhaps to chide Armin for giving advice he himself would find difficult to follow, but he’s interrupted by a timer going off on his phone. “Shit.” Jean stands up immediately, disentangling his fingers from Armin’s. “That’s the brownies.” He stops the timer and heads to the kitchen to take them out of the oven. He sticks a fork in the middle and pulls it out, inspecting the prongs for signs of goo. “They’re done.”

“That’s goo--”

“Okay, are you two done yet?” Jean and Armin both start as Gretchen’s voice carries over to them from the living room. “I’m going to need the kitchen back soon!”

“Yeah, Ma!” Jean heads out of the kitchen and casts a self-conscious look down at his flour-covered clothes. “And I should probably clean up.” He gives Armin a squeeze on the shoulder. “Thanks, Blondie.”

Armin smiles warmly up at him. “Anytime!”

Jean starts to walk past him towards the hallway, but he pauses a little ways beyond Armin’s chair, turns slowly on his heel, and comes back. He bends over and gives Armin a quick kiss on the cheek before scurrying away. Armin raises a hand to his suddenly burning face and wonders where on earth the bottom of his stomach could have gone.

* * *

 Jean and Armin spend the rest of the day helping Gretchen prepare several dishes to take to the Springers’ for dinner. Jean teaches Armin how to properly cut vegetables: apparently, Armin’s been doing it wrong for years, placing his index finger along the top of the blade and gripping whatever vegetable he happens to be butchering with flat fingers. “Holy shit, Blondie!” Jean scolds at one point, repositioning Armin’s grip on a sweet potato with own warm hands. “Do you want to lose your pinky?”

No, Armin doesn’t want to lose his pinky. He really does try his best to chop correctly, but it’s hard to unlearn bad habits that have been years in the making. And Jean makes it look so easy! His chopping is precise and efficient.  _Probably because he’s had a lot more practice than me_ , Armin muses.

Yes, Jean definitely seems to know his way around a kitchen. Armin, in contrast, has learned to feed himself as a survival skill, but he’s never particularly _enjoyed_ cooking so he hasn’t spent of a lot of time trying to improve his meals beyond the threshold of “routinely edible.” Observing Jean now, he feels an odd mixture of admiration and guilt; he decides that he should be better at taking care of himself.

At one point in the early afternoon Gretchen steps out of the kitchen for a moment to make a phone call and it’s just Armin and Jean again. Armin is mashing some sweet potatoes (a job that, fortunately, does not require much finesse) while Jean deftly cores a pepper for the cornbread stuffing. Armin watches Jean out of the corner of his eye, and, remembering that Jean’s apparently pretty handy with a wrench as well (that is, if his car-repair skills are really as good as he claims), finds himself blurting, “You’re good with your hands, aren’t you?”

“Wh-what?” In direct defiance of Armin’s assessment, Jean’s hand slips and he narrowly misses his fingers on a downward slice. “Shit! Jesus, Blondie, don’t just say stuff like that randomly!” He sets down the knife and turns to stare at Armin, his face and neck flushing a deep pink.

“Stuff like what? I was just thinking abou—oh,” Armin feels own cheeks warming up and is suddenly overcome with a pressing need to examine the checkered linoleum floor. “Oh, uh, I only meant—ah, never mind!” He returns to his bowl and starts pulverizing the sweet potatoes with gusto to mask his embarrassment.

There’s a pause where they each go back to their respective tasks, carefully avoiding eye contact. And then Jean ventures, in a rather low voice, “I mean . . . I’ve gotten that, uh, review before.”

Armin’s pretty sure his brain short-circuits for a moment. Fortunately, the buzzing of his phone rescues him from having to stammer out a coherent response. He drops the masher into the potatoes and tugs his phone out of his pocket. “Oh look, it’s Eren and Mikasa. I s-should take this right now. Immediately. So I will. Goodbye!” And with that he strides out of the kitchen and into the office, where he closes the door behind him and leans his back against it. He takes a moment to try to still his beating heart and calm his breathing before accepting the incoming Facetime request.

Mikasa’s clear grey eyes and shiny black hair fill the screen. Her beautiful face is bathed with bright sunlight as she stands on the deck behind the Yeager’s house, and Armin can hardly help sighing in longing: it’ll be at least four more months before he sees that kind of weather here in the East.

“Armin? What’s wrong? You’re all red. Do you have a fever?”

Armin runs a shaky hand through his hair and smiles sheepishly down at her. “Something like that. “Happy Thanksgiving!”

“Hey, it’s Glasses-Armin!” Eren’s face suddenly appears next to Mikasa’s, practically pressed up against her cheek. He blows an errant strand of dark hard out his eyes and then grins at Armin. “I got your text and I’m still thinking, so it might be a while before you get an answer!”

“Take your time,” Armin tries not to let his relief show on his face. _You don’t have to cross that bridge just yet. Let’s stay on this side of the river of adulthood for a little longer_.

“What text?” Mikasa’s eyes slide to Eren’s face, assessing.

“Er, we’ll talk about it later. Right now I wanna meet Armin’s new boyfriend!”

Armin’s treacherous heart starts racing again. “Oh, um, I didn’t exactly say that I would be introducing you . . . and we’re not really boyfriends yet . . .” _Are we? How do you tell when you’ve left “almost boyfriend” limbo? That's the question of the day._

“Did he say that?” Mikasa’s voice takes on a dangerous edge. “Is he using you, Armin?”

“What? No! I just . . . it’s me,” Armin confesses, realization dawning on him. He steps away from the door and lowers his voice as he continues. “I’m still a bit . . . confused, I guess. I really”—he takes a deep breath—“really like him, but it’s just . . . kind of overwhelming.”

“So not like Bill then,” Eren deadpans. “Because that dude was, like, the textbook definition of underwhelming. Ow! Mikasa!”

Armin chuckles. “I take your point! I’d just like a little more time to figure it all out before you meet Jean. If that’s alright.”

“Of course, Armin. But we’ll want to meet him eventually.” Mikasa smiles fondly out at him and Armin finds himself growing a little calmer; Mikasa always has his back.

“If you decide to keep him,” Eren adds, nonchalantly sticking an unlit cigarette between his teeth. “I mean, he does look like a horse. And there was that whole thing with the copier, right? Hey! Mikasaaaa!”

Armin sighs. Time to change the topic.

“So who’s coming to dinner today? And is Grandpa there yet? I want to wish him a happy Thanksgiving too.”

* * *

Jean, Armin, and Gretchen drive over to the Springers’ house around four in the afternoon, just after sunset. The place is barely a block away, but they have too many casserole and pie dishes for the three of them to carry over on their own, so they take Jean’s car. Jean is twitchy, his fingers tapping against the steering wheel as they make their way down the dark street. Armin finds himself biting his lip in sympathy, his own stomach twisting in knots as his brain imagines all the ways tonight’s dinner could go sour. Even Gretchen seems a little on edge: she never got the full story from her son, but between the brownies and the way he keeps shifting in his seat, she definitely knows something is up. She’s uncharacteristically quiet, her narrowed eyes darting between Jean and Armin as if one of them will eventually reveal what’s gone wrong. Armin feels a twinge of guilt for making her anxious, but Jean’s been very closed-mouthed about the whole _O’Sullivan’s_ affair after their discussion this morning, and it’s not really Armin’s place to tell Gretchen her son’s problems.

Connie’s childhood home turns out to be a cute little bungalow that practically screams New England seasonal charm: the little whitewashed porch is decked out in garlands of fake leaves and there’s a hay-stuffed scarecrow standing in the yard. To complete the picture-perfect Thanksgiving vibe, it seems like the Springers have a full house for dinner this evening: there are so many cars already stationed outside the their place that Jean has to park across the street. Armin tenses at the thought of having such a large audience for whatever is about to go down between Jean, Connie, and Sasha. _I probably should’ve guessed they'd have this many guests. We made a ton of food._ To cap it all off, Armin hears the muffled sounds of children’s laughter and screaming from within the house as he troops up the front steps with Jean and Gretchen. He abruptly remembers that Connie has a posse of siblings, some of whom are probably also old enough to have their own broods. _Oh boy. This is going to be one high energy event._ Suddenly the Yeagers’ relatively sedate Thanksgiving is starting to sound even more appealing, even if his erstwhile asshole high school gym teacher Keith Shadis would be in attendance (every year Carla invites him because, in her own words, “He doesn’t have anywhere else to go,” and every year he ends up trying to teach Armin how to do a proper rep of push-ups).

Gretchen’s only carrying one pie, so she has a hand free to knock on the door. It’s answered almost immediately by a scrawny boy with dark tufty hair and wide green eyes who looks to be about ten or eleven.

“Hi there, Jacob!” Gretchen chirps in greeting. “It’s wicked cold out here! Mind letting us in?”

The boy—Jacob, apparently—shakes his head and opens the door wide enough to admit them into the Springers’ house.

The foyer is a little cramped: there’s a staircase that takes up most of the space in the narrow room with a large number of coats and scarves hanging off the railing, and a collection of boots clutters the entryway floor. Armin can’t really begin to count all of them, but he estimates there’s probably around twenty pairs, some of which are quite small.

Yes, this is going to be one boisterous Thanksgiving. A shrill squeal and a crash somewhere off in the distance confirms Armin's assessment. No one besides him reacts to it, however, so he supposes this a relatively normal occurrence for the Springer household.

“How’re you, Ms. Kirstein?” Jacob asks politely, although he’s rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet with barely repressed energy.

“I’m well! How about you?”

Jacob doesn’t even miss a beat. “I’m hungry.”

Gretchen throws back her head and laughs: a mirror imagine of one of her son's mannerisms, Armin notices. “Well, you’ve come to the right place! Here.” She hands him the pie she’s holding. “Can you take this into the kitchen for me?”

Jacob nods solemnly and carefully takes the proffered dish, holding it close to his chest like it’s a precious object. Then he trundles off past the stairs and down a hallway, presumably to follow through on Gretchen’s request. Meanwhile, Gretchen starts peeling off her hat and coat. “That’s Jacob, Sunny’s oldest,” Gretchen explains.

Just then, a short woman in a very orange apron appears from the hallway, her round face beaming and her arms held wide in welcome. “Gretchen! So wonderful to see you!”

“Sarah!” Gretchen and the other woman embrace. She can only be Connie’s mother, Armin decides: not only does she have his stature and round face, but she also has his large, slightly protruding eyes, although the hair she has piled up on her head in a bun is mostly gray.

After she’s released Gretchen and the two women have exchanged pleasantries she turns her attention to Jean, who lifts his dishes above his head so she can hug him around the waist. “And Jean! It’s been too long! How’s Reiss treating you?”

“Well enough,” Jean answers with a slight shrug of the shoulders. He indicates Armin with a nod of his head. “Oh, Sarah, this is my, uh . . . this is Armin.”

Armin lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding and feels a slight stirring of disappointment in his stomach. It seems like Jean has failed to find a definitive word for their relationship too. Armin’s suddenly haunted by his words to Mikasa and Eren earlier that day: “ _We’re not really boyfriends yet._ ”

_Well, why not?_

“Oh yes! Armin! I was told you’d be joining us,” Sarah exchanges a knowing look with Gretchen and Armin feels himself blushing again. _You signed up for this when you agreed to tell Jean’s family that you were dating, even if you aren't boyfriends yet. At least they’re nice and accepting and you don’t have to hide that you’re . . . someone to Jean_. “I’d shake your hand but you don’t have a free one! How about we go set these down in the kitchen?”

“Actually, Sarah, if you could take these?” Jean passes his casseroles over. “Thanks! There’s just a couple more in the car, I’ll be right back.”  And with that he ducks back out into the cold night to retrieve the rest of their food.

Sarah leads Armin and Gretchen down the hallway to a cozy kitchen which smells strongly of roasting turkey and sage. The tiled countertops are already overflowing with food and Armin struggles to find places to put their dishes, but somehow he manages. Then he sheds his coat as  Sarah tugs him into the adjacent dining room, where several adults are gathered around the long table, sipping glasses of wine or nursing beers. A quick scan of the group tells Armin that Connie and Sasha aren’t there. Something unclenches inside of him: it’s not quite the moment of confrontation yet.

He’s given a list of names to go with the faces but he knows he’ll never be able to sort them all out—not without more exposure, at least. The only one that sticks is Sunny, Connie’s older sister and Jean’s mechanical mentor; she’s the surprisingly tall woman at the end of the table with dark bangs and a flannel shirt. She’s just giving Armin a friendly wave when Jean strides into the kitchen behind him, carrying the remaining casserole dishes in his arms.

“Hey! What’s up, Jean-bean!” Sunny calls, toasting Jean with her can of Sam Adams.

Jean rolls his eyes, but a faint smile tugs at his lips as he squishes the new food onto the counter. “Not much, Sunshine. What’s new with you?” It pops into Armin’s head that Sunny is possibly the source of Jean’s nickname habit.

“I’m alright! Connie was asking about you earlier. Wanted to know when you were showing up.”

Jean’s arm jerks, elbowing a bowl of cranberry sauce off the counter, but manages to catch it before it falls and makes a huge mess. “O-oh?”

“Yeah, he’s in the den with the kids, if you wanna go say hello.” She cocks a concerned eyebrow at him. “You okay there, Beans?”

“Yeah.” Jean grabs his square tin of brownies off the counter and starts heading out of the kitchen. “I’ll be right back.”

“W-wait, Jean! I’ll come say hi to Connie too!”

As Armin hurries after Jean he hears Gretchen say in a low voice, “He made the brownies.” Her intelligence is followed by a series of concerned clucking.

Armin catches up to Jean as he’s about to cross the foyer. “Hang on, Jean! Just a sec.” Jean obeys, stopping just in front of the stairs.

“You don’t have to come too, Armin.” He thinks Jean’s aiming for stoic, but his voice warbles just the tiniest bit. “In fact, it’s probably better if you don’t. I don’t wanna embarrass you again.”

“But I want . . . I want to help. If you think I can help.”

Jean blinks down at him. “Help?” Armin nods and Jean considers. “Well, if you’re sure, some . . .  moral support would be nice.”

Armin gives Jean an awkward thumbs-up. “That’s what I’m here for.”

“That’s good,” Jean flashes a smile at him. “Because I was kinda worried . . .” He clears his throat and turns a little pink. “Never mind. Let’s just do this before I lose my nerve.”

Armin drops his coat on the banister and then holds the brownies while Jean shucks his own. Then they go together through the more formal living room—which is filled with more adults, who nod and call out to Jean—to a room at the back of the house that’s been closed off from the others. Armin can immediately understand why: the yelping and shrieking from within is a telltale sign that this where all the kids are hanging out before dinner. Beside him, he hears Jean take a deep breath before holding out his hand for pan. “Brownies, please.”

Armin passes the dish back to Jean, who then pushes open the door.

They’re immediately hit with a wave of noise. Not only is there a gaggle of kids running around inside (Armin counts eight in total), but there’s also TV plastered to one wall that’s blaring a football game. Connie, dressed in a ridiculous pumpkin sweater, is wrestling on the floor with two rambunctious children, while Sasha, who’s sporting an oversized Patriots jersey is perched on edge of the leather couch, yelling at the TV: “Penalty! Oh, c’mon ref!” A little boy of about eight is sitting with her, carefully mimicking her every gesture.

There’s also group of three kids gathered around a grizzled middle-aged man sitting in an overstuffed armchair who’s making wild hand gestures as he tells them what appears to be a very intense story. “So when you see that kind of scat, you better turn the hell around, or else you might end up as Pooh Bear’s dinner!” The strange man makes claws with his fingers and snarls, causing his little audience to shriek and skip away.

The little boy on the floor with Connie suddenly looks over at Armin and Jean and squeals in delight, “Uncle Jean!” He stands up and tackle hugs Jean, who, despite his significant size advantage, staggers back a little.

“Hey-y, Daniel,” Jean ruffles the kid’s shaggy brown hair and then looks up to meet Sasha and Connie’s gazes. The atmosphere in the room changes from cheerfully chaotic to frosty in the space of a second, as all of the kids stop waving at “Uncle Jean” to shoot puzzled glances between Connie, Sasha and Jean. A few curious eyes start turning Armin’s way as well, sizing up the smaller stranger who's appeared in the room.

Jean lifts an awkward hand and waves. “Er, hello, everyone! Connie, Sasha, Mr. Blouse, sir.” The strange man in the armchair grunts a greeting. _Mr. Blouse? Sasha’s father?_

“Hi again, _Armin_ ,” Sasha says pointedly, keeping her eyes on him instead of Jean.

“Yes, ah, hello Sasha! And Connie!” He nods to Connie on the floor. “And nice to meet you, uh, Mr. Blouse.”

“Charmed," growls the man.

There’s a drawn out pause that feels almost physically painful. Then Jean clears his throat. “Uh, Connie and Sasha: could we talk? In private. Please?” He adds quickly, in response to Sasha’s frown.

“There ain’t no privacy in this house, son,” Mr. Blouse cackles. “Every room’s bursting at the seams.”

“How about your room?” Jean suggests to Connie. “Please?”

Connie hesitates and chews his bottom lip, but the pleading note in Jean’s voice must get to him because he rolls up off the ground a second later with a huffy, “Fine.” Then he strides past Jean and Armin and starts walking towards the foyer. Sasha gets up and follows her husband, still not looking at Jean, although she does cast one last look over her shoulder at the game on the TV.

They trek together up the stairs and into what must be Connie’s childhood room, a small little space plastered with posters of Star Wars, Transformers, and Megan Fox, and currently littered with sleeping bags for all of the children who will be staying over for the night. Armin notices four such children (Daniel, another even younger boy, and two little girls around Jacob’s age) tip-toeing after them, but decides not to say anything. Closing the door behind themselves seems like it will be effective enough at discouraging their curiosity.

Having secured relative privacy, Jean clears his throat. Sasha and Connie are standing opposite him, arms crossed over their chests in almost identical expressions of stern anger. It would be cute, except they’re directing their glares at Jean, who's as white as a sheet. He glances down at Armin, who gives him a shaky smile of encouragement.

“Well?” Sasha prompts.

“W-well,” Jean begins. “I brought you here . . . or well, we came all here to . . . well, you get the point. Or, no you don’t, actually.” Connie and Sasha exchange an exasperated look as Jean takes a deep, steadying breath. “The point is that I wanted to apologize to you for my behavior last night. Not only was I an asshole to you public, but I also made your wonderful personal news about myself and my, uh, past. Which I shouldn’t have done. You’ll both be great parents and I just wanted to say that I’d love to be here to help you . . . if you want me to be.” He offers them a crooked self-deprecating smile, then looks down at thin tin his hands. “Oh! I also made you peanut-butter brownies.” He quickly holds out his peace-offering.

Connie and Sasha are looking at each other again. Connie raises one eyebrow at his wife and jerks his head towards Jean: a question. Sasha considers Jean for a long, tense moment, then shrugs. “I like brownies. And peanut butter.”

Connie nods gravely. “Alright. I _suppose_ we accept your apology.”

“And your brownies,” Sasha says immediately, taking the tin from Jean and pulling back the foil. She takes out a marbled brownie and stuffs it into her mouth, closing her eyes with pleasure.

“Sasha! Dinner will soon!” Connie cries in exasperation.

“I’m pregnant! I’m eating for two now! Don’t put me on a feeding time table!”

Jean throws back his head and laughs—perhaps a little too loudly, out of relief. Connie points an accusatory finger at him. “And you! You better be ready to babysit! Start reading up on changing diapers and baby CPR because as far as I’m concerned you still owe us!”

“I dunno, honey, I think I’d be okay with him paying us back entirely in brownies because these are reaaaally good," Sasha says thickly, her mouth full of Jean's desert.

“Hey! Gimme those!” Connie tries to tug the tin away from Sasha, who’s holding it in a vice-like grip. “Those are me and Jean’s thing, you can’t have them all!”

Still chuckling, Jean exchanges a euphoric grin with Armin. “I’ll pay you back in diapers and brownies! Hell, whatever you want! Well,” he adds when Sasha shoots him a calculating look. “Not _whatever_. I have _some_  boundaries.”

A voice muffled by the door calls the household down to dinner. When they open the door to obey the summons, however, they find their path blocked by six children (two more apparently appeared sometime while they were talking), who were clearly standing outside and listening. Daniel, who appears to be the ringleader, has the grace to look a bit contrite. “Kiki wanted to get a book.” He points at the smallest child in the group, a girl of a seven with dark skin and long curly black hair. She stares up at Armin with wide, innocent eyes, but something about her quiet aspect makes him suspect a ploy.

“A book, huh,” he says, putting his hands on his hips. “Well, it’ll have to wait until after dinner.” He flaps his hands in a shooing motion and the children all scatter, giggling as they race down the stairs.

“And you really want one of those things, huh?” Jean asks, earning him a slap on the arm from Sasha.

* * *

With everything mostly settled between Jean and his friends, Armin finds himself able to relax and enjoy Thanksgiving with the Springers, boisterous though it might be. Pretty much all of the food is delicious (apart from a rather suspicious looking red jello salad that Armin decides to pass up) and an elderly woman with glasses even more dated than Armin’s keeps refilling his wine glass. The alcohol loosens his tongue and he ends up explaining bathymetry and sonar technology to a very befuddled Mr. Blouse. For his part, Sasha’s father (Armin manages to confirm the connection) turns out to be a Christmas tree farmer from Vermont, who hasn’t spent much time prior to now thinking about the ocean but seems pretty interested in Armin’s descriptions of processes for mapping its floor. Meanwhile, Jean spends the dinner arguing with another of Connie’s siblings—Martin, Armin thinks—about the quality of Reiss University’s varsity hockey team (“It’s the only sport we’re any good at, but we’re definitely top tier!”)

After everyone has gorged themselves on the main course and Sarah and her husband John start bringing out the pies, Sasha gets to her feet and taps her water glass for attention. “Okay! Okay! Everyone listen up!” She shares a quick grin with her husband before turning back to the gathered crowd. “I just wanted to say . . . Connie and I have announcement.”

“Oh my God!” Sarah drops the pie she’s holding; it splatters all over the floor, sending apples and syrup everywhere. No one seems to care however, since they're all too busy staring up a Sasha with mouths agape.

Sasha smiles in apology for startling Sarah and hastily continues, “We have a bun in the oven and it’s due in May!”

The whole dining room immediately erupts into applause and exclamations of “Congratulations!” Armin turns to toast with Mr. Blouse, only to find silent tears streaming down the man’s craggy face. Armin offers him an extra napkin and pats him comfortingly on the shoulder.

“Hey, Auntie Sasha,” Jacob suddenly pipes up from the kids’ table, his green eyes wide with interest. “If you’re having a baby, does that mean you and Uncle Connie had sex?”

The whole room instantly goes quiet, except for Sasha, who snorts. “Well, _duh_ , squirt.”

“Cool!” Jacob exclaims with a cheeky grin while the other children start up a chorus of “ewwwwww!"

“Oh-kay, that’s enough of that!” Sarah declares, wiping her own eyes. “L-let’s have pie to celebrate!”

After pie, Armin’s pretty sure he won't be able to move from his chair for a least a couple of hours. The heady mixture of wine and rich food is making him incredibly sleepy. However, he manages to rouse himself when nature calls, excusing himself to use the restroom. When he gets out he finds little Kiki waiting just outside the door again, her brown eyes even bigger than before, if such a thing is even possible.

“Hi, Mr. Armin.”

“Hi Kiki. Just Armin is fine.” He bends over (wobbling a little from the wine) so they’re closer to the same height and smiles patiently at her. He has the feeling she’s here for something very specific.

She nods seriously, as if he’s just let her into his confidence. “Okay. Armin, I wanted to know . . . do you play chess? It’s okay if you don’t, I could teach you.”

Armin feels his smile growing a little wider. “Actually, I do play a bit of chess. Would you like to have a game?”

Kiki nods again, her eyes twinkling. “I know a quieter place, we can go there.” She tugs on his sleeve and leads him to a corner of the living room, where a bunch of Connie’s relatives are vegging out and playing a game of cards. They set up the board and start playing, Kiki taking her time with each move. Armin has to admit he’s a little surprised by her skill level and he quickly adjusts to play at his full strength; or, as much of his full strength as he can muster after two and half glasses of wine. Even when he's fighting against the soporific effects of food and alcohol, Kiki’s not really a challenge for him, but he’s a firm believer in teaching by example. For her part, Kiki doesn’t get too frustrated when she loses, but merely frowns and asks to play again.

At first Armin tries to chat with her while they play, asking her questions about her family (Connie’s brother Martin is her father, a woman named Sheryl her mother), but Kiki’s curt answers indicate that she prefers to concentrate in quiet. Armin suspects that she chose him as an opponent because he seemed like a kindred spirit in that regard, a thought which warms his heart a little bit.

He’s just preparing to checkmate her for the third time when Jean appears beside them. “So this is where you’ve gotten to, Blondie!”

“Shhh!” Kiki hisses without looking up from the board. “And his name is Armin, Uncle Jean. Don’t be mean.”

“Yeah,” Armin smirks up at Jean. “Don’t be mean.”

“Of course you play chess.”  Grumbling to himself, Jean plops down beside them and watches their game to its conclusion, when Armin backrow checkmates Kiki with his rook. “Next time create an opening with your pawns, in case you need to escape.” He holds his hand out for Kiki to shake. She takes it with a purposeful grip. “Good game."

“Again?” She inquires, her head tilting to one side.

“Actually, Kiki, could I borrow Armin for a bit?”

“Uncle Jean,” Kiki scoffs. “You can’t borrow people.”

“Okay, you little budding literalist: I’m going to talk to Armin for a bit." His hazel eyes slide to Armin. “If he wants to, that is.”

Armin smiles at him, his heart fluttering a little. “Sure!”

Jean helps Armin up while Kiki packs up her pieces and trots off to find someone else to play with, though not without a considering glance back at Armin. Jean then leads Armin on a meandering tour of the house as they search for a room with a relative amount of privacy. Slipping through the kitchen, they settle on the pantry, which feels a little cramped and just a bit sly, like they’re lovesick teenagers skulking around in a high school comedy. Armin’s heart speeds up as they crowd together in the small space, lit by a single flickering light bulb.

“Hey,” Jean begins, trying to lean nonchalantly on a shelf and accidentally knocking down a box of instant mashed potatoes. “Oh, Christ.”

Armin laughs and puts it back. “So. What did you want to talk about?”

“Well.” Jean rubs his hand on the back of his neck. “I just wanted to say thanks for everything you did today.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Armin starts to wave Jean off, but Jean catches his hand. Armin’s throat tightens, but he manages to hold eye contact with Jean, who’s smiling coyly now.

“I dunno, talking with you this morning helped a lot.” Jean links their fingers and tugs Armin a little closer. “Though I felt bad about dumping all my crap on you, when you’re on holiday and all.”

“I-I don’t mind.” Armin allows himself to be pulled closer and takes Jean’s other hand. “Really!”

Armin notices a bit of a nervous edge to Jean’s chuckle. “That’s good. Because I was a bit worried that maybe you were regretting coming home with me.” He glances down and back at Armin from underneath his lashes, which Armin suddenly realizes are surprisingly dark and long. _We’re really close all of a sudden_.

“N-no, I don’t! Not at all!” Armin gulps. “In fact, I’ve been thinking a lot . . . and maybe _overthinking_ , actually. And I was wondering, maybe . . . if we could, um . . . are we boyfriends?” He blurts out the last few words.

The stupefied look on Jean’s face is almost cartoonish. “Boyfriends,” he repeats, like he's just hearing the word for the first time.

“Or is it too soon?” Now that Armin’s started talking, he finds he can’t stop. All of his thoughts are pouring out of him now in a babbling stream. “I mean, we only met two weeks ago and, like, everything’s moving so fast but it feels like, well, it feels like we kind of _are_ boyfriends already and I just really don’t like ambiguity, so maybe if we could clear this up real soon that would be . . . great.”

“Great.” Jean’s parrots again. “Yes, that would be great. Being boyfriends, that is.” His face is slowly breaking into a big grin. “If that’s wh-what you want? Because I really, really like you Armin Arlert and I think I would enjoy being your boyfriend.”

“I do!” Armin breathes, his eyes dropping to Jean’s lips. He pulls one of his hands out of Jean's grasp and rests it tentatively on the other man's shoulder, pressing himself even closer. “Want to be boyfriends.”

Jean uses his recently freed hand to push Armin's glasses up to the top of his blond head. Then he slides that hand around Armin's waist. Armin hears his heart pounding in his ears: he knows what’s coming next. “Okay, Blondie,” Jean murmurs, nuzzling Armin’s nose with his own. Unable to stand the tension anymore, Armin closes the final distance between them and presses his lips to Jean’s.

The first kiss is short and gentle, but still leaves Armin’s veins thrumming and his head spinning. Then Jean’s arms tighten around Armin and he kisses him with a bit more urgency. Armin savors everything: the feeling of being held close to Jean’s strong, warm body, the faint taste of cranberry sauce on Jean’s tongue, the little gasp Jean makes when they come up for air. He is lucky that Jean’s holding him up because his knees have turned to water! It’s certainly a sensory overload, one that might be a bit scary if Armin actually stopped to think about it—but no, he’s done thinking, at least for a little bit.

They eventually break apart and Armin reluctantly suggests they get back to the others before someone comes looking for them, only to find them making out in the pantry. Jean lets out a shaky laugh at that, gives Armin one more short kiss, replaces his glasses on his nose, and then lets Armin lead him out into the kitchen, their fingers still locked together.

* * *

Back in the office-cum-guest-room at the Kirsteins' house, Armin lies tucked under the quilt, his mind buzzing.

 _We kissed, we kissed, we kissed! We’re_ boyfriends. _I have a boyfriend! Jean is my boyfriend!_

He tries not to replay their tryst in the Springers' pantry over and over again--tries not let his imagination go too wild wondering what the next kiss will be like and where it could lead. To distract himself, he picks up his phone to text Eren and Mikasa to tell them about what happened . . . no. That’s what teenage-Armin would do. Adult-Armin doesn’t kiss and tell. He sets the phone back down on the pillow beside him.

_But if I don’t tell someone I’m going to explode!_

Armin picks up his phone again, only to have it start going off in his hands. He scrambles to turn the volume down and then squints at the queue of messages that are suddenly popping up on his lock screen.

 **ER0N (Now):** soooo abt kids

 **ER0N (Now):** its not that i dnt want them

 **ER0N (Now):** jst not rn

 **ER0N (Now):** but i think mom has empty nest syndrome

 **ER0N (Now):** bcuz she seems sad

 **ER0N (Now):** nd kinda lonely

 **ER0N (Now):** so she wants grandbabies

 **ER0N (Now):** so i dunno wut 2 do…

Armin feels the balloon of happiness in his chest deflating a little bit. _Carla is sad? Eren and Mikasa have been away from home for years now, shouldn’t she be adjusting? Is Eren reading the situation correctly? Well, his intuition is usually on point when it comes to Carla. It might get lonely in that large house, since Grisha works a lot. But she has all her clubs and her volunteer work . . ._

Armin drops his phone and rolls onto his back, staring into the dark void above his head, his dizzy thoughts about Jean suddenly transforming into uneasy ones about his home in California.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally cannot look at this anymore. I skimmed for typos. I just need to get this out right now lol.
> 
> EDIT: Okay, I'm fine now really lol. Just did some typo corrections (ack, so sorry about those!). And here are a couple things. . .
> 
> First Up: this chapter was, as usual with me, hard to write lol. Particularly the middle scenes at the Springers' house ><. I tried to keep everything in character but let me know what you think!! 
> 
> Next up: [MirandaFandomette on Tumblr](http://mirandafandomette.tumblr.com/) is a really cool person who a) talked with me a lot about this fic and helped me with some blockages b) gave me the idea for the "did you guys have sex scene" c) supports my awkward Jearmin headcanons and d) drew some wonderful fan art of scenes from this fic! check them out [here](http://mirandafandomette.tumblr.com/post/160228174190/here-some-fluffy-graduate-students-au-jearmin#notes/)! Thank you so much for all of your help!! Also, everyone reading should check out their Jearmin comics, because they're excellent!
> 
> And finally: [I also have a Tumblr!](https://goodguyjean.tumblr.com/) I reblog fanart and post meta (mostly about Jean . . . .). Come talk SnK with me!
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading! I really appreciate it!!! <3
> 
> UPDATE: Mirandafandomette drew some more art, some of it of this chapter!!! [Here it is!](http://mirandafandomette.tumblr.com/post/161017807175/another-set-of-fluffy-graduate-au-jearmin-because)


	7. Trivia Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armin and Jean try to figure out what it means to be dating in the midst of finals stress. Armin's cohort goes to a bar. Ymir is surprisingly kind (for a moment). Armin visits Jean's apartment.
> 
> Heads up: this is the chapter where the M rating finally comes in to play!
> 
> Edit: Rating changed from M to E because my friends inform me my smut is basically porn ^^' Porn that makes sense within the plot? Enjoy? ^^'

Armin’s a bit nervous about what will happen when he and Jean return to Rosewall and are forced to schedule their time together around their classes and labs. Exciting as having a new boyfriend is, he can’t help but observe that their timing is terrible: finals period begins in another week and a half, and both of them will soon be up to their eyeballs in work.

But their relationship doesn’t seem to change that much in the immediate aftermath of their return; they text the same amount, about the same kind of subjects—weird YouTube videos Armin finds during a study break at one in the morning, funny sentences Jean’s students write in their penultimate essays—but now there are winky faces and cheesy compliments sprinkled in every few lines. They also now have lunch together, meeting halfway between their academic home-bases in a little cafeteria tucked away in the basement of the social sciences building. Armin, who is used to practically living in the TA office and the lab, finds he enjoys the walk and the change of pace, even if he has to brave the deepening chill of December to get to their meeting place. It’s nice to talk to Jean for a bit in the middle of the day, even if it’s just to commiserate on how little sleep they’re getting and how much work still needs to be done.

And the hello and goodbye kisses aren’t so bad either.

Jean often talks about his family, and Armin enjoys getting updates on Gretchen and the Springer-Blouses. Sasha insisted on exchanging Snapchats with him before he left (he told her he doesn’t really use the app but she didn’t listen), but basically all her messages are pictures of food she’s made at her restaurant or her and Connie wearing cat ears. Jean fills in the other details: that Sasha’s first check-up went well, that Gretchen has already started collecting fabric to make a baby quilt, that Connie sends Jean name ideas every couple of days that just keep getting weirder (“Ichabod? What the fuck kind of name is that if you’re not a Nathaniel Hawthorne character?”).

Sometimes Jean asks after Armin’s family. Armin tells him old stories about Eren getting into trouble and Armin and Mikasa coming to his rescue, but he can’t quite bring himself to voice some of his more recent concerns. Eren hasn’t been able to clarify what he thinks is up with his mother beyond just having a general feeling that “something’s off”. “You’ll see what I mean when you come back for Christmas,” he keeps telling Armin, whose sense of unease is growing. He doesn’t want to dump these particular worries on Jean though, not when he’s not even sure what the problem is. It’s better to wait and collect more data, and not borrow too much trouble during finals period.

And so, the days pass by . . .

* * *

 

 Their first Saturday back, Armin gets a text from Jean halfway through the day asking if he wants to see the movie playing on the cheap in the student cinema that evening. He bites his lip and glances at the stack of marine geological surveys of the New England coastline he’s currently working his way through for a research project. _I probably shouldn’t . . ._ his phone chirps again.

**Jean “Dirty Philosopher”**

**Saturday 12:46 PM**

Its this weird movie based on a short story

where a linguist saves everybody from aliens or something

A linguist!

It gives me hope that one day I too can save the world with my degree

…in philosophy…

…don’t say anything let me have my dreams! :P

Armin feels a goofy grin sliding across his face as he starts typing out his response. It’s an effect Jean is having on him a lot lately, even in the midst of all his end-of-semester stress.

  **Jean “Dirty Philosopher”**

**Saturday 12:48 PM**

Philosophy is important!

And posthumanist philosophy seems like it would be particularly relevant

during an alien invasion :)

Yes!

That’s what I’ll write on my CV

“Surprisingly useful in the event of an alien invasion” :P

So are you in?

Please say yes!

I would say we could sit in the back and make out…

But I actually want to watch the movie :P

And then talk to you about it

…and then maybe make out

…

We can smuggle tacos in with us!

You make compelling arguments sir lol

Alright fine

But 11 PM is my curfew

Yes dad :P

…oh no oh no I don’t like that

I’m not saying that again

No no no no

Yeah…that’s not really my thing

Sorry! ^.^’

It came out wrong! An accident I swear!

Do you need a ride to campus or are you already here?

I’m here so I’ll see you in a bit! :)

And there better be tacos :P

Oh I get it

I see how it is

You’re only with me for the tacos :P

Yes

I meet with you almost every day

On the off chance that you’ll buy me $2 tacos

From the taco stand in collegetown that’s run by communists

Damn!

Knew it!

They’re good tacos though

Good ol Karl’s, taking down the bougies one taco at a time

So I don’t blame you that much

Even though it breaks my heart :’(

What if I told you that you had to buy me tacos

Or you’d be grounded

…son

;)

JFC!!

Go back to work blondie!

I didn’t raise you to speak to me like this!

* * *

Somehow—he’s a little fuzzy on the exact details, which don’t seem terribly important at the moment—Armin has ended up straddling Jean’s lap while they make out in the front seat of his car, which is parked in a dimly lit side street a block away from Armin’s apartment. Jean pushed the driver’s seat back as far as it can go to make room for them, but it’s still a tight squeeze. Armin doesn’t mind that much, however; the tight space forces him to press up as close as he can to Jean, and he’s only bumped his head on the low ceiling once . . . maybe twice.

Jean’s fingers are gentle but firm as they tangle in Armin’s hair, his lips soft and warm against Armin’s own. A familiar heat is beginning to coil in Armin’s stomach, encouraging his hands to wander down Jean’s chest and his imagination to picture him and Jean in _other_ positions, wearing considerably less clothing . . . however, there are also other thoughts competing for his attention, even as Jean breaks the kiss to trail his mouth across Armin’s jaw and down to his neck . . . thoughts which are curiously effective at cutting through the haze of lust that is usually so all-consuming . . .

“Okay, I’ve got, ah!” Armin’s breath hitches when Jean licks a trail up to his ear. “Something, mmm **—** ” He has to pause again when Jean plants a kiss just below his jawline. “On my mind.”

“Oh yeah?” Jean’s voice is a low and breathless hum against Armin’s neck that sends a little shiver down his spine. Or maybe the credit for that goes to the hand Jean is slowly sliding up his shirt.

“Wha . . .why do the Heptapods have a word for ‘woman’?” Armin pants out.

Jean abruptly pulls away from Armin’s neck to stare at his boyfriend in confusion, his hand freezing on Armin’s waist. He looks almost comically flustered as he scrambles to catch up to wherever Armin’s mind has gone. “What?”

“Think about it!” Armin’s wide blue eyes lock earnestly with Jean’s narrowed hazel gaze. There’s a part of him that’s dimly aware that his overly analytic brain has kicked back in at a very inopportune moment, but now that the idea has occurred to him he can’t keep it to himself. He has to get Jean’s thoughts, even though they were talking over the movie from the moment they left to theater until Armin suggested they pull over in this secluded spot. “We don’t know how the Heptapods reproduce, or even if their concept of sex and gender are linked! What if they have more than two sexes and genders? What if they’re all agender? Why would they have a word for woman?”

Jean’s thin brows furrow thoughtfully as he mulls over Armin’s question. “Who says they do? I don’t remember that in the movie.”

“There was a montage where lots of words were flashing by pretty quickly. One of them was ‘woman.’”

“Oh, that is weird.” Jean leans back further in his seat like he’s settling in for a bit of a discussion, although he keeps his arms wrapped around Armin. “Maybe Louise taught it to them? They taught her words from their world, she taught them a few words that are unique to ours?”

Armin raises a skeptical eyebrow. “How would you even begin to explain the concept of a woman to an alien species that might have no idea what gender even is?”

“I think you’re underestimating the power of language. We find ways to explain complex concepts across languages all the time.”

“Yes, with varying degrees of effectiveness. Mistranslation and miscommunication created all kinds of drama in the movie!”

“They found a way in the end though,” Jean points out matter-of-factly. “Communication won out.”

“Only after Louise basically had a spiritual experience with the aliens,” Armin scoffs. “It wasn’t entirely scientific.”

Jean nods a couple times. “It didn’t fit with the earlier tone of the movie, I agree. But it was symbolic. Language allows us to cross cultural divides like Louise stepped into the tank with the Heptapods.”

“Well, I think their symbolism is a little reductive.” Armin frowns. He has to push his point a little further, despite the distracting warmth of Jean’s hand (which is still up his shirt) against his skin. “Okay, so let’s say Louise wants to explain the concept of woman to the aliens and comes up with a way to do it.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Why? Why do the aliens need to know that she’s a woman? How does that affect their communication with Earth?” Armin tries to keep his incredulity in check, but finds it slipping into his tone anyway. 

Jean chews on his bottom lip as he mulls over Armin’s question. “Because they want to know more about humans? Like it or not, gender is a pretty big part of how we humans self-conceptualize.”

“Hmmm.” Armin considers Jean’s words and deems he’s made a compelling point. “Still, it doesn’t seem like it should be high on the list of priorities.”

Jean barks out a laugh at that, startling Armin and causing him to jump. Jean’s arms tighten around Armin’s waist before he can tip backward towards the steering wheel. “Shit, sorry! I just . . . I can’t believe we’re talking about first contact protocol after making out like a couple of horny teenagers!”

“Oh, haha.” Armin feels an embarrassed flush creeping up his neck, a much more uncomfortable warmth than what he’d been experiencing just a few moments ago. Suddenly he can’t quite meet Jean’s eyes. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

“What? No, don’t apologize!” Armin glances back up to find Jean grinning at him, face flushed and eyes oddly bright in the nighttime gloom. “It’s fun! You’re fun! All this is fun!” He takes his hand from under Armin’s shirt to tuck an errant strand of blond hair behind his ear. “I wasn’t laughing _at_ you. Sorry. It’s just . . . really nice to spend time with you _because_ we can do stuff like make out and talk about aliens at the same time, as, erm, corny as that might sound.”

There’s a tightening in Armin’s chest and a twisting in his stomach as he looks at Jean, sensations which are simultaneously painful and elating. “I feel the same way” **–** is what he wants to say, but he’s afraid his voice will come out in an embarrassing squeak if he tries to speak at this particular moment. So he settles for kissing Jean carefully on the lips instead, his heart quickening at the little contented sigh Jean gives.

It’s Jean who speaks first after they break apart, his voice a bit raspy. “Right, okay, so. So, setting aside that this movie is actually more about Louise coming to terms with her personal loss than about the technicalities of a first contact situation, what concepts do you think should be prioritized in order to promote the most effective interspecies communication?”

Armin leans back into sturdy circle of Jean’s arms as he considers. “So, now that I think about it, the concept of nationality should one of the first things we explain to the aliens when they arrive on Earth. They need to understand that humans are an arbitrarily divided species and that this may slow down communication.”

Thoroughly caught up in this debate, Armin and Jean overstay Armin’s self-imposed curfew, sitting in the car and writing their list into a Google doc in Armin’s phone.

* * *

 

Armin’s pretty good at concentrating, even under extreme stress, so it’s a little disorienting when his mind starts wander to Jean while he’s studying or going over lab data after a long night’s shift. It’s not like Armin doesn’t daydream or have the occasional fleeting dirty fantasy on an average day, but the more time he spends with Jean the more he finds his new boyfriend entering his thoughts at seemingly random moments. It’s been over a year since his last relationship, and he’d almost forgotten what it was like to really desire someone.

If he’s being honest, Armin has to admit he’s always been the kind of guy who goes months without anything close to a crush, who doesn’t really feel the need to jerk off more than once a week (even though when he enjoys it when does). He has noticed, however, that this side of him becomes more of a presence in his mind when he’s seeing someone or developing strong feelings, and Jean is no exception. However, with finals coming up and the demands on their time increasing, Armin can’t quite bring himself to ask for what he wants. It’s probably not the right time for what feels—to him at least—like a bigger step, and he doesn’t want to be a bother to Jean or to distract himself. Jean is writing two seminar papers and is showing up to their lunch meetings with an increasingly haggard appearance (although Armin doesn’t mind; he likes Jean’s stubble) while Armin’s days become more and more devoted to a nasty geophysics exam.

Besides, as much as he hates to admit it, there’s part of him that’s a little afraid to get more physical with Jean, even as he fantasizes about it. After all, he’s been off the horse for a while now, and going to bed with someone new is always a little awkward and fumbling. What if he’s so out of practice that it’s just plain bad sex? What if Jean has some particular kink that Armin can’t fulfill? What if _Jean_ is bad? Not that Armin thinks he will be, based on the way they kiss, but still. What if Armin gets too nervous to orgasm? He decides that he likes what they have going now and is just not ready to deal with any of these possibilities until finals are over, when he has the time and energy to address them properly.

And so, he waits.

* * *

 

There’s a particular kind of euphoria that comes from completing a semester. Armin felt it more acutely as an undergrad, when the ends of terms actually meant a pause in one’s studies, but he still experiences a sharp thrill as he strides out of the Pixis building on the Wednesday before Christmas break after sitting the big geophysics exam. He also has a stack of grading to finish and some lab work to wrap up before he flies home to California, but a considerable weight has been lifted off his shoulders now and he can’t stop grinning. He knows that in a few hours the questions he grappled with the most will come back to haunt him, that he’ll berate himself when he realizes he has messed up an answer or three, but at this very moment, standing on the salt-strewn sidewalk in the flickering light of a setting December sun, he feels elated.

“Well,” Ymir grouches from his right, popping the collar on her slightly impractical bomber jacket and tugging her giant purple knitted scarf over her nose. “At least someone’s feeling pretty confident. Or are your study drugs just now kicking in, Armin?”

Even Ymir’s teasing can’t phase Armin now. His only response is to turn his slightly crazed smile directly on her, a sight which causes her to take an involuntary step back.

“I’m sure nobody in this cohort needed performance enhancing drugs,” Marco pipes up from Armin’s other side, smiling benevolently at the two of them as he tugs his wool cap onto his head. Ymir gives him an exaggerated eye roll.

“What’s this about performance drugs? Who’s using them?” Reiner Braun has come jogging up behind them, his breath fogging up his stylish glasses. It’s always a challenge for Armin not too stare openly at Reiner, a German student who is possibly one of the most traditionally handsome men he’s ever met: in addition to being tall, broad-shouldered, and square-jawed, his light blond hair is always artfully rustled and his goatee is well-trimmed. In spite of his intimidating good looks, Reiner’s open smile and friendly mien make him quite approachable, even for nervous Armin.

“Not you two?” Reiner continues as he falls in-step beside them and they all make their way to the bus stop together. He casts an incredulous look between Marco and Armin. “You’re too young! Eh,” he cuts off suddenly, a flush that has nothing to do with the cold appearing on his cheeks. “I’m sorry, that was impolite!”

Marco sputters and Armin’s blood turns to ice in his veins. “Not those type of drugs, Reiner! Study drugs! Like Ritalin or Adderall!” Armin rushes to explain, glad that his earmuffs conceal his reddening ears.

Ymir cackles.

“Oh.” Reiner furrows his brows in worried confusion at Armin, whose cheery mood is rapidly giving way to alarm. “You take those, Armin?”

“No, of course he doesn’t!” Marco rushes to Armin’s defense, his voice sounding a tad shrill. “Ymir was just making a bad joke.”

Reiner shoots a stern look at Ymir, whose laughter is now coming out in sharp wheezes that have her clutching at her sides. “Ah, yes. Yes, I see,” he mumbles under his breath.

“Fucking . . . Christ!” She gasps, leaning against the grimy bus shelter for support. “What would I do without you guys? I don’t even have to poke that much, you just do it all yourselves! Performance enhancing drugs, ha!”

“Well, that’s what they do, right?” Marco’s eyes dart between Reiner and Armin, seeking support. “Enhance your performance on tests!”

“Is _that_ what the kids are calling it these days?”

Reiner frowns at Ymir. “You shouldn’t provoke people”

Ymir’s grin turns steely. “Aw, but it’s so fun! You oughta try it sometime, it does wonders for my blood pressure.” 

“Okay, okay.” Marco steps between Ymir and Reiner before the teasing can devolve into something more heated. “That test was super hard, and we’re all on edge right now. How about we find another way to blow off some steam, hmm? Who’s up for trivia night at _Sina_?”

Ymir shrugs. “I’m always down for drowning my sorrows.”

Reiner considers, then gives a single nod. “Yes, that sounds fun. May I bring a . . . a friend?”

“Sure thing! The more the merrier!” Marco beams.

“Ooooo a ‘friend."” Ymir raises gloved fingers to make air quotes. Her suggestive tone provokes yet another blush from Reiner. “Good for you, Big Boy! Oh, that reminds me,” she reaches into a pocket to tug out her phone. “If we’re gonna make a nerd night out of it I gotta bring the missus. She’s good at this quiz game type shit.”

Marco appears distinctly relieved. Ymir usually tones down her antics around her wife. “Oh yes! Bring Historia, that’ll be great! Mina will be there too, so it’ll basically be like a date night.” Armin sneaks another glance at Reiner; his cheeks are practically on fire now but he also doesn’t deny that the friend he’s bringing is a date. Armin’s curiosity is peaked. _Interesting._

Ymir doesn’t look up from her texting. “Except for Armin.”

“Oh, right,” Marco’s smile falters a little when he turns to Armin, like he’s a bit embarrassed about making Armin a seventh wheel. “You in, Armin?”

Armin considers. He will have to do some work tomorrow, but a huge weight has just been lifted off his shoulders with the completion of this exam, and drinking and playing trivia with his cohort (and Reiner’s mysterious companion) does sound fun. However, he’s also not particularly thrilled at the prospect of being the only person there who’s not part of a couple. And he can’t call up his new boyfriend because Jean’s got a midnight deadline for his second seminar paper and hasn’t left the house in two days, although he has responded to Armin’s concerned texts. _Don’t worry about me, Blondie! Everything’s under control. Let’s get breakfast on Thursday to celebrate our freeeeeedom!_

Yes, he can’t call Jean tonight. Besides, he’s not quite sure he’s ready to tell his cohort about his boyfriend yet. Maybe it’s selfish of him, but he wants to keep Jean to himself a little longer, to give their relationship a bit more time to develop before he parades it around in front of everyone. _I’ll tell them after Christmas break, things will be more settled then._

Armin decides he’ll have two celebrations, even if it’s going to be a little awkward to go dateless for the evening. “Yeah, I’m in! Let’s go!”

* * *

 

“Okay folks, here’s the next question so get your pencils ready. What kind of person shall not be honored on a US postal stamp, according to the US postal service and the Citizen's Stamp Advisory Committee? Again that’s: what kind of person shall not be honored on a US postal stamp, according to the US postal service and the Citizen's Stamp Advisory Committee? You have one minute.” There’s a muffled thumping as the _Sina_ trivia night quizmaster sets down the microphone and starts a timer for the question.

“What the fuck?” Ymir mouths, tapping her pencil against the table as she stares sightlessly at the blank scrap of paper in front of her. “There are rules about who can be put on a fucking stamp? I thought we just voted on it?”

“I don’t think we vote to put people on stamps,” her wife, Historia, muses from beside her. Watching the two of them from across the table, Armin remembers the first time he saw them together. He was so shocked that they were really a couple. On the surface, they seem so opposite: while Ymir is seemingly loud, rude, and sarcastic, her wife is calm, sweet, and earnest. They even look quite different, with blonde Historia being much shorter than her lanky wife, and tending to favor vintage skirts and pastel florals over Ymir’s distinctly punk aesthetic. After observing them for a while, however, Armin has come to the conclusion that there’s more overlap in their personalities and interests than he initially assumed: although she tries to hide it, Armin suspects Ymir cares more deeply about her friends than she lets on, and Historia can be very fierce when protecting a loved one.

“It’s probably different in Germany, so I pass on this one.” Reiner shrugs, leaning back against the faux leather seat of the booth they’ve claimed. Scrunched up on his left is the most unexpected addition to this evening’s party, Bertl—no, Armin corrects himself, _Bertolt_ —the somber barista from _Zeke’s_. He looks as morose nursing a beer at a bar as he did when Armin first saw him behind the coffee counter a few weeks ago, hunching his broad shoulders like he’s trying to shrink to fit the cramped space of the booth. It turns out that he is Reiner’s new “friend”, though neither of them have been very forthcoming about how exactly they met. All Armin has learned from a few probing questions (shot Bertolt’s way by Ymir, Marco, and Marco’s chatty girlfriend _,_ Mina) is that Bertolt is a recent animal studies graduate of Reiss, that he’s currently working service jobs while writing up applications to vet school, and that he is not so fond of _Sina_ ’s signature spicy fries. He’s forgone the competition on who can eat the most of them the fastest, but then so has pretty much everyone besides Reiner and Ymir. Perhaps most surprising to Armin is that Ymir accepts his answers and doesn’t push him too hard: maybe his nervousness makes him an easy (and therefore boring) target. It’s a curious situation on the whole, on which Armin has been trying to get a handle on in between questions.

Marco looks up from across the table to frown thoughtfully at Reiner. “What are the rules for putting people on stamps in Germany?” he inquires.

Reiner just shrugs again. “No idea. This isn’t my area of expertise. I’m going to get another pitcher. Do we want more of the same, or something else?”

“Same is fine.” Marco smiles and all of the worried creases melt out of his face. “Thanks!”

Armin stands up to let Reiner out of the booth, then turns back to the matter at hand. What kind of person had he not seen on a stamp before? He quickly runs overall the possibilities, pushing through the haze of alcohol to contemplate of every stamp sporting a human face he’s ever seen. Then it comes to him and he snaps his fingers, causing everyone gathered around their table to look up at him and Bertolt to jump and slosh a bit of beer on himself.

“None of them are alive!” he proclaims, just barely remembering to lower his voice in case any of the other nearby teams are listening in.

Ymir is staring at him like he’s grown an extra head. She clutches her wife’s hand before whispering dramatically, “Shit! He’s cracked! C’mon, Historia, let’s slip him some of the sedatives and make a break for he goes full Sixth Sense on us!”

“Ye-meer,” Historia sighs, tugging her hand away. “He’s obviously talking about the stamps!”

“Fifteen seconds!” the Quizmaster’s voice booms over _Sina_ ’s speakers.

“Ohh that’s right, the _question_. Jesus, Armin, you scared me there for a sec.” Ymir licks the tip of the pencil and then hovers it over the tiny slip of paper, looking expectantly over at him. “What’s the answer again?”

“Living,” Armin whispers. “We’re not allowed to put living people on stamps. Probably because it’s too close to king-worship, or something.”

Ymir scribbles down the answer just as a server comes to collect it. After handing it over she knocks back the final dregs of beer in her glass. “Okay. There’s that one done.” She cranes her neck to look over at the bar. “Now where’s Reiner? All this nerding out is thirsty work.”

Armin turns his head to follow her gaze, opening his mouth to speculate that maybe the bar is crowded (as it usually is during the breaks where the quizmaster tallies up the answers) and Reiner’s going to have to wait a while, when someone walks by who catches his eye. Three someones actually: Hitch, Annie, and Marlowe, from Jean’s cohort. Hitch is standing the middle of them, her arms looped through theirs, smirking up at a clearly exasperated Marlowe while Annie merely shuffles along with them, still wearing her perpetually bored expression. Armin hesitates for a split second, caught between the impulse to duck his head and pretend he hasn’t seen them and his social obligation to at least offer a friendly smile, when Hitch catches him looking. Her grin widens and he gulps.

“Oh lookie here!” She saunters over to their booth, tugging her entourage with her. “Jean’s _friend_ , the geology guy. Where’s our little Jeanie? Still slaving over Smith’s essay?”

“I, uh,” Armin’s eyes slide from Hitch to his cohort, who are all staring at him again, puzzled by his familiarity with these newcomers. _Jean?_ Ymir mouths at him, a wicked gleam in her eyes. _Oh crap_. “Yes? He’s, er, working on some kind of paper at least.”

Marlowe disentangles his arm from Hitch’s and offers a hand for Armin to shake. His grip is a little too firm, Armin decides, but not in a menacing way; more like a man who doesn’t really know his own strength. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Ymir smirking up at Marlowe’s distinctive bowl cut. “Armin, right? Marlowe. It’s good to see you again! I hope you’re enjoying tonight’s game?”

“Uh, yes. It’s fun,” Armin smiles up at Marlowe who beams earnestly back down at him. He decides he likes this large and awkward philosopher, even if he is slightly pompous.

“There was a philosophy question earlier, did you get it?”

Armin’s smile turns almost wolfish. “Ah yeah, the one about Occam’s Razor? Too easy.”

Marlowe beams at him. Hitch rolls her eyes at them and mutters sulkily, “Duh, everybody got that one.” Annie continues to look placidly uninterested, her cold eyes straying over all of them in turn without curiosity. Her only real reaction is to narrow her eyes slightly at Bertolt cowering in the corner of the booth behind Armin.

“Okay, okay, enough of this.” Hitch waves Marlowe away from Armin, and then plants her hands on her slim waist look in down her little button nose at him in a calculating fashion. Armin gulps as he is once again reminded forcibly of a cat hunting its prey. “Settle a bet for us Armin. What’s going on between you and Jean? He’s been sneaking off for lunch without telling anyone where he’s going, but I saw the two of you in Fritz Hall the other day. What gives?”

 _Oh no, there it is_. Armin’s suddenly overwhelmed with a desire to join Bertolt in the corner. He can feel the heat of everyone’s curious eyes on him like laser beams. _This is it. I have to tell them._ It’s not necessarily that he wants to keep Jean a _secret_ , but there is a part of him the views telling his friends—beside Eren and Mikasa, of course—as another “big step”; one he can’t backtrack from if things suddenly go south between him and Jean, and one that will probably prompt prying questions he doesn’t really want to deal with at the moment. But Hitch is presenting him with no other alternative; if he denies his relationship with Jean and it gets back to him . . . Armin winces.

“Oh no look, they’re about to announce the score.” Armin’s head whips around in shock when he hears Ymir speak. She’s nodding over at a table set up in the center of the room, where the quizmaster is picking up his microphone again. “Better get back to your table now, before the next round starts.”

Hitch’s eyes narrow even further but Ymir stares her down and sticks her jaw out stubbornly. But before things can escalate further, Annie takes Hitch’s hand and starts dragging her back to their table. “Let’s go, I don’t want to waste any more time here.”

“Aw, Annie! Don’t be mad!” Hitch cries, allowing herself to be towed away. After a curt but polite apology, Marlowe jogs after them, muttering under his breath about Hitch’s antics.

Feeling a profound sense of relief, Armin opens his mouth to thank his surprising rescuer but he’s interrupted by Ymir leaning across the table and demanding. “Alright spill: who’s Jean?”

Armin’s utterly taken aback and can’t quite form words, so he just mouths silently like a fish.

“Ymir!” Historia and Marco scold at the same time. In the background, the quizmaster is rattling off the names of the teams who earned a point.

“What? I wanna know. Look,” Ymir begins in response to her wife’s frown, “that person didn’t know if Armin was out yet, so I didn’t want to let her get away with outing him to his pals, even if we all already knew. It’s just not right.”

“And another point for, ah, ‘Team Homosexual Tension,’” the quizmaster calls out across the room. Historia points an accusatory finger in his direction without breaking eye contact with her spouse.

“You named us ‘Team Homosexual Tension’! You outed all of us already! What you’ve done is just as bad as what she was doing.”

“We’re not gay,” Marco interjects, pointing to himself and Mina, who just rolls her dark eyes at him.

“You’re the token heterosexual supporting cast!” Ymir impatiently waves him off and turns back to Historia. “It is not the same because we all know each other! And it’s also not the same if _I_ pry into Armin’s business because we’re bros and there’s not supposed to be any secrets between members of the same cohort. That’s the _rules_!”

“What?” Reiner has appeared at the table again, another pitcher of amber beer clutched in his hands. “Who’s keeping secrets?”

Everyone else turns to speak to Reiner at once, but Armin gets there first. “I am!” he exclaims, unable to take the tension anymore. “I’m dating a guy named Jean from the philosophy department.”

There’s a brief pause while everyone blinks at Armin, then Bertolt offers a feeble “Yay!” and a small smile from his corner in the booth. Then the quizmaster poses the next question and they scramble to get situated again, focusing for a brief moment on pooling their collective knowledge to come up with an answer. When they’ve passed off another slip of paper—the name of the grandmother on _Gilmore Girls_ is Emily, they’ve decided—Ymir starts in on Armin again.

“So, who’s this Jean guy? How long have you been dating? — Ow!” she cuts off when Historia slaps her lightly on the forearm.

“Oh, hang on,” Marco interjects, looking pensive. “I think I met him. The guy who brought you the coffee a while back, right? Tall, kind of messy undercut?”

“Oooooo, messy undercut!” Ymir shoots a cheeky wink at Armin.

Armin’s cheeks start to heat up but he decides he may as well answer. _Nothing to lose now._ “Uh, ye-yeah, that’s, uh, him. And we’ve been dating since about Thanksgiving,” he replies to Ymir.

Marco smiles reassuringly at him. “Oh, that’s good! He seemed cool!”

Ymir scoffs, “How can you tell if someone’s cool from meeting them one time?”

Marco shrugs. “I dunno, he just seemed like a nice guy. I’m very happy for Armin.”

“Me too!” Reiner raises his glass to toast Armin and claps him on the back with his other hand.

“Oh, fuck it.” Ymir lifts her drink as well. “To Armin finally getting some!”

Marco sputters, and despite shaking her head at her wife’s crude jokes, Historia joins the toast with a small smile playing about her lips. After hesitating for a split second, Armin joins them.

They play a few more rounds before Armin’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He excuses himself to the bathroom and surreptitiously checks his messages after he’s finished washing up.

**Jean “Dirty Philosopher”**

**Wednesday 9:27 PM**

Ahhhhhhhh it’s over! It’s done!

I just couldn’t look at it anymore, so I sent it in

I actually ma’am aged to turn something in before the deadline, gooooo me :P

Ack fucking autocorrect. Managed*

Oh fuck, what if I missed some typos in the paper

Fuck fuck fuck

Shit

Armin chews nervously on his lip, mulling over his options. He thinks back to the toast he just made half an hour ago and takes a deep breath.

  **Jean “Dirty Philosopher”**

**Wednesday 9:33 PM**

Don’t worry about it!

Nothing you can do now!

It’s done, you should chill :)

In fact, I also need to chill, after my geophysics exam and all

Maybe I could come over and we could chill together?

His shaking thumb hovers for a moment over the send button after typing that last line, but he finally hits it when another man slams the door open and strides into the bathroom, startling him. He stares at what he’s just written, his pulse rabbiting in alarm. He’s never been the one to make this kind of first move before. Is it clear enough what he’s getting at? Should he have added a winking face or something, just to err on the side of caution? Or would that have been too cheesy? In fact, is calling it “chill” too cheesy? Like that goofy idiom “Netflix and Chill”? Oh god, he probably sounds like some fumbling teenager, using code words for sex! Jean is his _boyfriend_ , for God’s sake! His adult boyfriend!

Armin is startled out of spiraling thoughts by his phone buzzing in his hands again. His heart jumps into his throat as he skims Jean’s rapid-fire replies.

**Jean “Dirty Philosopher”**

**Wednesday 9:34 PM**

Sure! :) sounds good!

Great! Yay! Ok haha

OH!

You need my address, der :P

15B University Rd

It’s in the basement, there’s a creepy staircase on the outside to get down to it

I’ll leave the light on for you

OH wait, you probably need a ride, buses don’t run as often at night.

No, it’s okay! I’m in collegetown with some friends

Celebrating end of term whoo, haha

So it’s not that far to walk actually :)

You sure? I can put on actual pants and come get you, it’s kinda cold out

…wow ok, smooth Jean smooth :P

Actually can you give me 10 minutes? I should shower…and tidy up some

…15 mins

I really don’t mind a mess!

My place isn’t so clean either

Ugh finals ><

But I also don’t want to be a bother, we can hang out tomorrow like we planned

If that would be easier :)

Oh no, tonight is good!

But tomorrow is also good!

Why not both, lol?

xD

Just like

Walk really slowly, if you could? :P

But not too slowly

…medium slowly

Ok xD

I gotta say good night to my friends anyway

Great! Yes! Do that!

Cya in a bit!

Yup :)

Steadying himself with a deep breath, Armin pockets his phone and takes a moment to check is appearance in the bathroom’s dingy mirror. He can say with certainty that he has looked better: his ratty old Berkeley sweatshirt reflects that he dressed this morning for comfort rather than style, and his eyes still have their hollow finals-time look. But there’s a brightness there unrelated to the alcohol, a smug quirk to his lips at the thought of another man—and not just any other man, but Jean!—enthusiastically accepting Armin’s offer to come over, asking for just a few minutes to make himself presentable. There’s still a nervous buzz in the back of Armin’s brain, a quiet voice murmuring about all the ways this tryst could go wrong, but it’s accompanied by a much more compelling electric thrill. As usual, the magnetic pull of being with Jean is overcoming his impulse to keep his distance, to play it safe. Armin still finds these emotions a bit scary and unusual for him, but they’re also exciting.

He carefully smooths down his blond hair and exits the bathroom to say goodbye to his friends.

* * *

 

Armin returns to the booth to make his excuses, collecting his coat and setting his earmuffs carefully back on his head so as not to muss his hair too much. His friends’ smiles as they bid him goodnight are a little too large and when he turns to leave he catches Ymir’s stage-whispered, “Yup. That’s definitely a booty call.”  Heat rushes to his face at the thought of that he’s been so obvious, but he supposes there’s no help for it; at least winter break is coming up soon, so they won’t have much time to tease him before they all leave for the holiday.

_And anyway, it’ll be worth it. Probably._

The night is cold and dark, but not unbearably so. Walking— _medium slowly_ , he reminds himself with a small smile—warms him up a bit, and the streets down the hill to Jean’s place are actually quite well lit. He weaves his way through gaggles of partying undergrads wearing outfits that seem a bit impractical for this weather, avoiding looking at any group too closely in case he should encounter one of his students. Or, heaven forbid, one of his professors stumbling out from another bar. _It’s not like they would know where you’re going_ , he chides himself. _And if they did, so what? It’s normal to see your significant other. People_ expect _you to._ He squares his shoulders and tries to stand a little straighter.

He passes a CVS and it occurs to him that he maybe shouldn’t rely on Jean to have supplies. Not that he doesn’t trust Jean, but the man has been sequestered away studying for several days, and if he hasn’t dated anyone in a while—just how long has Jean been single for anyway?— there’s no guarantee that he’ll have what they’ll need. _Better safe than sorry._ He ducks into the bright fluorescent light of the pharmacy, looking cautiously over his shoulder as he pads his way over to the sexual health aisle.

Once there, a new conundrum presents itself. What are they going to do? Lube’s a given, but is he going to need condoms? He bites his lip as he stares at the brightly colored boxes, suddenly reminded of all the complexities of starting a new sexual relationship. He _should_ buy condoms, just in case, but he’s not sure how far he wants to go tonight. There would be so much to discuss first: serious stuff like safety with previous partners and STD testing (which, Armin admits, he should probably bring up anyway), and logistical matters like if Jean even likes anal and who wants to “top”. Although Armin’s experiences with penetration have been hit-or-miss, he has found bottoming pleasurable and would like to try topping sometime . . . and he has fantasized about doing both with Jean in recent weeks. But it still seems like it would be an intense place to start exploring the sexual side of their relationship.

 _Better safe than sorry_ , he repeats to himself and pulls a small pack of lubed condoms from the dispenser.

He also grabs a packet of gum and a candy bar before making it to the checkout counter, as if these small commonplace items will somehow distract from the fact that he’s stocking up on sex supplies. It’s late at night, and he’s buying condoms: the cashier must know there’s really only one thing he can be doing. He knows it’s silly—he’s an adult, goddammit!—but he still studiously avoids making direct eye-contact with the middle-aged man who rings him up, pretending instead to be really interested the magazine rack. It takes a lot of Armin’s willpower not to bolt as soon as the man hands him the plastic bag, but he manages somehow.

 _Man, I forgot booty calls can be hard work_.

Jean’s building turns out to be one of the many crumbling early nineteenth-century houses that have been carved up into apartments by local landlords. This one has been painted a bright baby blue that makes it easy to locate even in the dark but, on the downside, it is listing slightly to the right in a way that strikes Armin as distinctly unsafe. He has to circle twice around it before he finds the stairs leading down to the basement, even though Jean has made good on his promise and left the outside light on for him. He feels another stab of worry for Jean when sees that the only windows to the place are small slits. _How can he stand living here during a dark Rosewall winter?_ He tries to shake away his rising concern and gear himself up for ringing the doorbell.

Now that he’s here, the excitement that had started to build up in the bathroom at _Sina_ is giving way to an increased nervousness. Armin looks down at the plastic CVS bag in his hands and tries to clear his mind. He reminds himself that first times are always a little awkward, that Jean has always been kind to him, and that, above all, he _wants_ Jean. He thinks back to their heated make out session in the car a little over a week ago, the swooping sensation he feels in his stomach whenever they kiss, the bubble of affection that rises in his chest whenever Jean laughs at his jokes or talks with him about his geeky obsessions. And although his heart beat is racing at what feels like a mile a minute, a fond smile comes to Armin’s face.

He reaches out to press the doorbell.

“Oh, shit, hang on. Just a minute!” He hears some muffled shuffling beyond the door and then quick footsteps. His breath sticks in his throat, but it’s too late to ding-dong-ditch now. Whatever happens between Jean and him tonight, he’s at least going to have to speak with his boyfriend.

The door is pulled open a few moments later by a rather flustered looking Jean. His damp brown hair is plastered to his head, there’s a nick on his jaw that can only have come from very rushed shave, and he’s wearing a gray hoodie and sweatpants ensemble, but he’s also smiling at Armin like sun shines out of his ass. Armin glances shyly down at his snowboots, a deep blush rising to his cheeks and his stomach dropping like he’s just stepped off a cliff. “H-hey,” Jean stammers through a crooked grin, his own face turning slightly pink. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“We-well, I was uh, I was in the neighborhood so I just thought . . . I’d, I’d swing by, or something.” Armin winces at his utter failure at being suave. “Er, can I come in?”

“Yeah, of course.” Jean chuckles a little too loudly, clears his throat in embarrassment, and stands aside to let Armin into his apartment.

“Here, let me take your coat,” Jean offers politely, holding out his hands. Armin drops the CVS bag and shrugs out of his winter layers and steps out of his boots, passing them off to Jean as he takes a quick look at his new surroundings. Jean’s place is a studio, with a tiny but fully equipped kitchen on end of the room and Jean’s messy desk stationed on the other. The only other furniture is a small set of flatpack table and chairs, a futon bed tucked into one corner, and a couple overflowing bookshelves. A large print of some modern art painting (at least, Armin presumes it's modern art; it's all lines and bright colors and large swathes of white space) hangs on the wall near the desk, but it's balanced out by a _Star Wars: The Force Awakens_ poster near the kitchen. The whole place is lit by an eclectic collection of lamps stationed at various points in the room. Although the apartment doesn’t seem dirty, there are signs that Jean has been burning the midnight oil on his final projects: dishes piled up in the sink, stacks of library books scattered around the floor, an overflowing laundry hamper at the foot of his bed. Overall the space, although a bit cramped, gives the impression of being thoroughly lived in.

“So, this is it,” Jean declares, nodding over his shoulder at the room while he hangs Armin's coat on a hook by the door. “My place. It’s not much, but it works.”

“It’s cozy,” Armin shoots him a small smile before drifting over to examine some of the books Jean’s been reading. He sees Nile Dok glaring up at him from the back cover _Transformative Posthumanism_ on the top of one stack and grins to himself.

Jean trails after him, sticking his hands in his pockets like he’s trying to be casual. “That’s a polite word people often use for small and dingy. Plus it can't be too cozy; the heat is working now, but I swear the landlord turns it off every now and then because he likes to see me suffer.”

Armin makes a sympathetic noise in response and keeps walking towards the bookshelves. From a cursory glance, they appear to primarily contain academic volumes, but he spots the occasional science-fiction novel here and there. Or, given Jean’s field of study within philosophy, maybe he also reads these types of books for his studies.

There’s a pause which lasts a little too long for Armin’s comfort. He turns to face Jean and clears his throat.

“I, uh, also noticed the building seems to be, er . . . tilting,” he ventures, not exactly sure how to turn their conversation to why he’s really here. Jean has stopped in the center of the room, keeping a bit of distance between them like he’s waiting for Armin’s cue to start. Armin gulps, anxiety bubbling again in his stomach. _It’s not fair! I sent the text messages and I came over; I’m not sure I can take the lead here too!_

Jean rubs the back of his neck with one hand and gives a little shrug. “Ye-ahh, this place is a bit of a dump, to be honest. And the landlord doesn’t want to drop too much money into it; it’s not a good investment. The housing market is so bad he knows he can get renters no matter what, so why bother?”

“Hmm yeah, that sucks.”

Another awkward silence descends, the tension thickening to the point where Armin can hardly stand it. He’s just about to break and ask Jean if they’re on the same page when the other man snaps his fingers and turns back to the door. “Oh, that’s right, you dropped your bag.”

Armin tries not to scrunch up his face in embarrassment but feels it happening anyway. _I guess that’s one way to handle it_. He drops his gaze again.

There’s a rustling as Jean presumably picks up the bag and then, “Ahhh! So, _this_ is what you meant by chill!” Armin looks up to meet his eyes and is surprised to see something akin to relief on his boyfriend’s face.

“Why else would I come over this late?” Armin squeaks out, his ears reddening.

Jean shrugs again. “I mean I was _hoping_ you wanted to, er, ah . . . with me. But I didn’t want to assume. I mean, I don’t want to push you.”

“Well, _I_ don’t want to push _you_!” Armin’s voice rises in exasperation. “Oh God, I didn’t even think . . .” He’s mortified now, his eyes widening in alarm at the thought of all the misunderstandings his lack of clarity might have caused. “I came over, but what if you hadn’t understood . . . if you hadn’t wanted . . .”

“Hey, hey, hey, slow down, Blondie. It’s fine!” Jean finally closes the distance between them, crossing the room and reaching out to pull Armin into a hug. Armin yields immediately, burying his face in Jean’s warm chest. _He smells so good. Like he always does, but with slightly more soap._ “If I hadn’t wanted to see you, I wouldn’t have told you to come over! And even if there had been some miscommunication, we would have figured it out. I, um, wanted you here, even if we weren’t going to have, ahh . . .”

“Have sex,” Armin finishes for Jean, his words muffled by the fabric of Jean’s hoodie. He supposes now is as good a time as any to start speaking frankly.

“Yeah, that.” Jean plants a light kiss on the top of Armin’s head. “But you know, I don’t mind if you come over late at night just to like, hang out. Especially after I’ve just turned in a paper, I kinda get antsy without some kind of distraction, haha.”

Armin tightens his arms around Jean, a warmth that has nothing to do with the proximity of their bodies spreading through him. “Thanks. I’ll be more explicit next time.”

Jean’s laughter reverberates through Armin’s body. “W-well, you can also show up and try to sweep me off my feet, if you like. Though I, ah, appreciate when you’re explicit.”

Armin pulls away just enough to look Jean squarely in the eye. His heart is pounding in his ears now, so loud he’s afraid he won’t be able to hear himself speak. “Jean, d-do you want . . . do you want to have sex with me? Right now?”

“Shit, Blondie.” Jean leans down to capture Armin’s lips in a kiss. Its intensity catches Armin a little by surprise, but he joins in enthusiastically, opening his mouth eagerly for Jean’s tongue. They’re both panting by the time Jean finally breaks away. “Yes. Yes please.”

Armin doesn’t want to rush, necessarily, but now that everything has been cleared up and Jean is actually holding him in his arms, he feels a push to move forward before his propensity for overthinking can strike again. He kisses Jean once more, cupping the other man’s face in his hands, pressing their bodies together a close as he possibly can. Jean is incredibly responsive to Armin’s advances, reaching down to grope Armin’s ass and moaning when Armin starts sliding his hands underneath his shirt.

“Oh fuck, I want you,” Jean groans, walking Armin backwards to press him up against an open space on the wall while they continue to feel each other up. Jean starts planting kisses on Armin’s neck, nipping at the sensitive spots he has discovered in their previous make out sessions.

“H-how?” Armin stammers, his eyes sliding closed. A wonderful heat starts pooling in his stomach as Jean touches him. “How do you want me?” He shifts his hips so that their groins are pressing directly against other. Jean curses against Armin’s skin.

“Well, that’s a . . . good start,” Jean gasps, breaking away from Armin. “And I think . . . I think we’re both wearing way too many clothes.”

“Y-yeah,” Armin agrees, still grinding against Jean. “Although I do like this.”

“Shit, me too.” Jean rolls his hips to meet Armin’s, causing Armin to whine as pleasure courses through him. He had kind of forgotten what it was like to be touched this way by another person, the intensity of the feelings it could spark. Although his trepidation about taking this next step lingers, his desire to close this final distance between the two of them is overpowering.

“L-lift your arms for me,” Jean instructs.

Armin complies, allowing Jean to tug off his hoodie and the t-shirt he was wearing underneath it and toss them both on the floor. Jean’s own top immediately joins them. Armin takes a small moment to admire the view. He’s felt Jean’s torso before, but never actually seen it. Jean wasn’t kidding when he said he worked out, there’s some serious definition to those abs. It triggers a minor twinge of self-consciousness about his own scrawnier body, but Armin tries to push that aside. Instead he allows himself to give into his impulses, reaching out to run his fingers through Jean’s sparse chest hair. “You’re lovely,” he murmurs, almost to himself, and then pinches one of Jean’s brown nipples experimentally.

Jean gives a little shrug when Armin raises a questioning eyebrow. “Nothing?” Armin feels his stomach sinking in disappointment.

“It’s not _bad_ ,” Jean hedges. “Just not like, a particularly sensitive spot or anything.”

“Oh.” Armin’s face falls a bit. “That’s too bad, I like nipples.”

Jean offers a lopsided smile in apology. “And how about yours?”

Armin tilts his head from side-to-side. “A bit.”

“Let’s see.” Jean leans down to slide his tongue over Armin’s own pebble of a nipple, his warm hands gently stroking Armin’s sides. Armin shudders at the sensation and then cries out when Jean’s teeth graze against his skin.

“How’s that?” Jean glances nervously up at Armin, waiting for his verdict. “Did it hurt too much? Did you like it?”

“I . . .I liked it!” Armin stares down at Jean with a bit of wonder. “More than I usually do!” Why was that? Why did it feel different with Jean than it had with previous lovers? It was illogical, but it was the truth. Or was he misremembering? _Something to get to the bottom of later._

Jean sputters. “You don’t have to stroke my ego, Blondie. If you don’t like it, we can move on.”

“No really! Do it again!” Jean obeys, biting a second time. Armin’s back arches in response, his head lolling back against the wall. “Ah!”

“Oh, you do like that.” Jean sounds pleased with himself. He twists Armin’s other nipple.

“Mmm.” Armin bucks his hips against Jean’s leg, suddenly seeking friction. “It does f-feel good, but I think it would feel even better if you were also touching m-my, uh, my dick,” he finishes in a smaller voice.

“I can do that.” Jean drops to his knees and unbuttons Armin’s jeans. He pulls them down and then mouths at Armin’s erection through his boxers while he also reaches up to tease a nipple.

Armin’s brain scrambles under the dual stimulation. “Sh-shit.”

“I like your potty mouth,” Jean divulges, kissing the soft skin of Armin’s hip. “Want me to keep going?”

“I won’t . . . I won’t last if you do,” Armin confesses in a croak.

Jean carefully slides Armin’s boxer’s down and slowly licks the underside of Armin’s cock from base to tip. Armin whimpers as his knees start to buckle, the ache in stomach suddenly unbearable. “I don’t mind.” Jean looks down coyly. “I, uh, actually like to give head.”

It’s so tempting. Jean’s mouth is wet and warm and it would probably feel wonderful wrapped around Armin’s cock . . . but Armin can’t help but feel like there’s a way this should be done. “I . . . I think I’d rather it was good for both of us, at the same time. For the first time, at least.” _Is that too romantic? Am I overthinking it?_ He bites his bottom lip as he waits for his lover’s answer.

Jean sits back on his heels, considering. Armin’s about to tell him to forget it, they should just keep going as they were, but then Jean speaks. “Hmm, sometimes that’s tricky, but we can try? You’re thinking like, a simultaneous handjob, right?”

Armin nods, relief that Jean hasn’t dismissed the idea immediately coursing through him. “Yeah, if that’s okay with you?”

“Sure, I’d like that.” Jean offers him a sweet smile. “I mean, it’s you. I won’t say I’d try _anything_ you wanted to, but I think we can manage this.”

There’s a lump in Armin’s throat that makes it difficult to speak, but he tries his best anyway. “Sh-should we move to the, er, bed?”

“I think that would be easiest,” Jean affirms, standing up once more. “Uh, let me get rid of my pants first though.”

He quickly shucks his sweats and then, with another shy look at Armin, his boxers. Feeling a bit embarrassed himself, despite the fact that Jean has already seen his dick, Armin discards his own underwear. Surveying his naked lover, he decides Jean really shouldn’t be worried: he’s a bit hairy, but Armin actually prefers that look (he’d been a bit disappointed that his last partner had shaved almost obsessively). And Jean’s erect cock, while not quite as thick as Armin’s, is long and has a nice curve to it. He’s also, like Armin, uncircumcised. So, nothing new for Armin to figure out there.

“Well, that’s that,” Jean mumbles, kicking his clothes into a pile. Armin finds he can’t repress a nervous giggle. Jean flushes with further embarrassment, his eyes drifting to the side. It’s such a familiar look on him, one Armin has seen countless times before. Even in this new and, quite frankly, slightly terrifying environment, Jean is still Jean. Realizing this takes the edge off Armin’s worries. He steps forward and kisses Jean slowly and sensually, his tongue sliding across the roof of Jean’s mouth. Jean makes a desperate sound that sets Armin’s blood on fire and makes his head spin—who knew he could get these kinds of reactions from Jean? What other noises can Jean make? _Oh fuck, I really want this._

Jean leads a now naked Armin to his futon in the corner and the collapse together onto it, rumpling up the blankets and pillows. Jean crawls over Armin who sprawls out beneath him, licking his lips in anticipation of picking up their kiss where they left off. Instead Jean runs his fingers through Armin’s golden hair, fanning it out into a messy halo around his head.

“Blondie,” he sighs.

“Why do you call me that?” Armin asks, although his brain is already churning over some theories. “Do you have a thing for blondes? Hair more generally?”

Jean’s hazel eyes narrow as he considers. “Maybe? I’d never really thought about it. I guess I do notice a person’s hair first, but like, I don’t have a particular color or style I prefer or anything. Maybe my hair’s so bland, so I’m a bit envious, or something.” A wry smirk slides across his face.

Armin reaches up to run his hands through Jean’s short mousy hair. Jean closes his eyes and turns his head into the touch. “No, that’s not true,” Armin murmurs. “Your hair is nice.”

“If you say so.”

“I do!” Armin insists.

Smiling a little, Jean bends down to kiss Armin once more, winding his hands in Armin’s hair. Armin arches up into it, biting down on Jean’s lower lip. Jean responds by grinding down against Armin, grunting when their erections press together. Lying like this, Jean is all Armin can see and smell and feel but, somehow, it’s still not enough. It’s not rational, he knows, but he’s filled with the overwhelming desire to merge their bodies somehow; if he can just press closer maybe the wall of skin between them will dissolve and he can get his wish.

It’s such an all-consuming thought that when Jean pulls away Armin actually whines in dismay.

“I-I gotta get the lube,” Jean rasps. “It’s too dry.”

“Y-yeah,” Armin acknowledges, raising a hand to wipe away some of the saliva that’s drippled out of the corner of his mouth. There’s a cold rush of air as Jean gets up to find Armin’s CVS bag, cursing as he stumbles—apparently Armin’s not the only one who’s legs have turned to jelly. Armin stays on his back on the bed, chest heaving as he catches his breath.

There’s a rustling as Jean opens the bag. “Do you want condoms?” He asks. “I, uh, I’m assuming because you haven’t brought it up yet that there’s nothing I should be worried about.”

Armin forces himself to focus through his haze of lust. “Y-yeah. I mean, I’m fine. No problems. Been tested. I don’t, I don’t want a condom for this, unless you do.”

“I’m good.” There’s more crinkling as Jean presumably opens the cardboard box of lube. Armin sits up to watch his boyfriend, palming his erection as a strong sense of _need_ overtakes him.

“H-hurry back,” he calls.

Jean pretends to grumble about Armin’s horny impatience and then comes striding back over with the lube. When he sees Armin stroking himself he pauses. “Fuck, you really are ready to go, aren’t you?”

“I w-want this,” is all Armin can manage to blurt out. Jean’s whole face flushes and he licks his lips.

“That uh, sounded even better than I imagined it would.” Jean plops down across from him on the futon, the mattress buckling slightly under their combined weight. “Okay, c’mere you horndog.”

Armin crawls over to Jean and tries to find a way to straddle his lap so that Jean can have easy access to both their dicks. It takes a bit of maneuvering, with Jean making suggestions and Armin trying his best to follow suit. Finally, Jean ends up leaning against the wall for support while Armin sits up on his knees and holds onto Jean’s shoulders.

“Okay, let’s try this,” Jean murmurs to himself, squirting a bit of lube into his hand. Armin snickers at the lewd squelching sound.

“Yeah, yeah, everything’s funny to you isn’t it, Blo-ahh!” Jean breaks off as he wraps his large lubed up hand around both their dicks and starts to stroke them slowly. “Oh man, oh man, oh man.”

For his part, Armin leans his head into Jean’s shoulder and moans. His hips give and involuntary stutter and Jean’s pace picks up a little bit. “Oh, ohhhh! Oh Jean!” Without really thinking about what he’s doing, he digs his nails into Jean’s shoulder.

“F-fuck! Can you do that, ah! Can you d-do that again, Armin?”

Still clutching onto Jean with one arm, Armin lightly runs his nails down Jean’s side and is rewarded with a satisfied hiss.

“Feels so good,” Jean babbles as jerks them both off. “You feel good, shit.”

He’s so right, Armin decides. The sensation of their cocks being squeezed together is so overwhelming that he can barely concentrate on kissing Jean; he’s essentially panting against his lover’s lips instead. Jean doesn’t seem to mind. His eyes have slid shut as he loses himself to the pleasure.

Armin urges Jean to go faster, trembling as white hot heat builds up to an unbearable point in his abdomen. “J-Jean, I . . . I’m gonna, gonna. . .”

“What?” They’re nose to nose, Jean’s breath warm against Armin’s already searing skin. “What’re, ah! What’re you gonna d-do?”

Armin gives his head a tiny shake. “Can you m-move your hand just a little, aaah! Just a little higher?”

Jean acquiesces to Armin’s request, and Armin arches his back with a loud cry. He can feel his balls tightening, his whole body seizing up just before a moment of release . . .  and then it’s over, a burst of tension deep within him that leaves him sobbing and moaning and twitching. Jean follows him with a muffled grunt, his hand continuing to stroke them through their orgasms until they’re both overstimulated. Then Armin collapses on Jean, clinging to him in a blissful, sweat-soaked, post-coital haze.

It’s Jean who speaks first, burying his face in Armin’s damp hair. “Fuck, that was nice.”

“Y . . . yeah,” Armin pants out, still basking in the afterglow. Jean feels so warm and nice next to him, and his limbs feel so spent; he doesn’t want to move again for some time. His eyes start to slide closed. “Can I stay here tonight?”

Jean’s arms tighten around him. “What kind of question is that? Why on earth would I kick you out now?”

Armin gently kisses Jean’s collarbone. “I don’t know, I just . . . I just thought I should ask.”

Sighing, Jean pulls Armin down so that that they’re lying on the bed together, bodies still entwined. Armin knows that they'll have to get up soon, that he'll definitely want to clean up before falling asleep, but for the moment staying here with Jean is all he wants to do. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! Okay! So!
> 
> Slightly awkward (but hopefully also cute and sexy??) Jearmin sex. And tons of characters ahhhhhh >< It's so hard to write them all and give them all distinct voices. How does Isayama do it?? Again, the middle sections were the hardest to write as many people move around etc. Let me know if something's confusing!! There's also a lot of skipping around and scene transitioning, I think more than any of the previous chapters >> And is it just me or are they getting longer and longer . . . and could be developing pacing issues >> Anyway . . .
> 
> Two massive shoutouts to give! Huge thanks to [MirandaFandomette](http://mirandafandomette.tumblr.com/) and [Eclipse](http://imperfecteclipse.tumblr.com/) for reading and commenting on drafts of this fic!!! You guys are great! (And everyone should check out their Jearmin art!). 
> 
> Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy!! I appreciate all comments and kudos :) Unfortunately I won't be able to post a new chapter until September, as I am finishing my quals and starting a new semester (ahhhh gotta make a new syllabus >>). Thank you for your patience!!
> 
> UPDATE: New MirandaFandomette art of this chapter!!!  
> Here is the makeout scene:[Taddaa!](http://mirandafandomette.tumblr.com/post/162945108100/its-very-messy-but-ive-tried-twice-to-ink-it-or#notes)  
> [Also here is a drawing of the NSFW smut stuff.](http://mirandafandomette.tumblr.com/post/162945210470/have-another-quick-fanart-inspired-by-goodguyjean#notes)


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